


Post-Mortem Living

by sunken_ships (sunken__ships)



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, (in a way), Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Slow Burn, Slurs, Unrequited Crush, connor has to follow evan around everywhere and slowly falls in love, connor's ghost is tied to evan, evan can't see connor, featuring jared kleinman the closeted bi, is this deh: the novel? you decide, kind of, oh look another ghost!connor fic, why? you'll have to find out ;)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11752845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken__ships/pseuds/sunken_ships
Summary: "Connor opened his eyes.That was his first problem."Connor Murphy wakes up, after falling asleep for what he thought would be the last time, as a ghost. He discovers that, now, he can only exist in his bedroom, and by Evan Hansen's side.And now he has no choice but to watch as Evan walks into the Murphy household like it's his day job, and turns everything to shit.But something's wrong. Somehow, Connor knows that Evan is meant to be able to see and hear him, but he can't.Can Connor figure out a way to get through to Evan, to get him to stop lying, before everything spirals out of control?





	1. Discovery, pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'hey you know what you should do,' i say to myself. 'you should start posting that fic you've been writing and had no intention of posting, despite the fact that you're currently working on another fic and you have uni work to do'  
> this fic basically sticks to canon. whenever there's a scene where a song is in the musical, i just kind of re-write the song as if it were a normal dialogue scene (and try to stay away from directly quoting the song as much as possible).
> 
> just an extra warning, if you didn't read the tags: in this fic, I try to stay as close to canon-Connor (or at least the Connor that we see in DEH) and canon-Evan as I can. which means that Connor is not a nice person. at all. he blames evan for his suicide, he's highly aggressive towards everyone, including his family, and he's just generally horrible. he will get better, but over time.
> 
> trigger warning: connor often references his own suicide, and tells others to kill themselves.
> 
> on that cheery note, i hope u enjoy! x

     Connor opened his eyes.

     That was his first problem.

     He took a moment for his brain to catch up to this fact.

     He was alive. It hadn't worked. Some fucker up in the sky was determined to drag out Connor's miserable existence for as long as possible, no matter how many pills he'd downed and how much alcohol he'd chased it with.

     Connor's hand went to his hair, gripping it. "Fuck," he grunted out through clenched teeth, as a feeling of utterly bewildering frustration began to bubble up inside him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

     Why couldn't he just be dead? Why did the universe just want him to suffer?

     How the hell had he survived?

     Connor sat up, panting, wanting to hit something, and looked to the two empty bottles of painkillers beside him, sitting on the carpet. He'd bought both of them just for the occasion. An equally empty bottle of Jack Daniel's — he'd snuck it from his parents' liquor cabinet months ago — lay beside them. Jaw clenched, he reached for one of the bottle of pills, snatching it off the floor.

     Well, he tried to snatch it off the floor. His hand just passed right through it.

     Connor's stomach lurched. "What the fuck," he said, gazing wide-eyed at his hand. "What the..."

     He tried again, and once more his hand passed through the bottle as if it were air; and the floor, too.

     "Holy..." Connor scrambled to his feet, and noticed a dark shape beneath him.

     He looked down. It was... It was him. That was him, on the floor.

     Connor stumbled back a few steps, his hands going to his own body instantly, as if double-checking that he was still there.

     He was. He could feel himself, standing right there, in his bedroom. So how the hell was he also passed out on the floor?

     Was he tripping? Could you trip if you took enough painkillers? Was that a thing?

     Connor just stared at himself, his ears ringing, feeling pretty fucking helpless. What the fuck was going on?

     He looked at the empty bottle of pills that his hand had went right through.

     He looked back to himself on the floor.

     Something clicked in his brain.

     "Oh, God," he moaned, his hand going to his forehead, suddenly feeling nauseous. "Oh my God. Holy shit."

     He wasn't tripping. He wasn't dreaming. And he wasn't passed out. That was him, on the floor.

     Dead.

     He let out a drawn-out grown that grated on his throat. Of course. Of fucking course. He couldn't just die and be dead, could he? Of course he had to be a fucking ghost or something. He couldn't just let the darkness envelope him and leave him in peace.

     "Fucking..." Connor covered his face with his hands. "Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. Fuck!"

     He looked around his room helplessly. Everything was the same. There was no weird, mystical glow to anything. His room looked the same, and the house was quiet. What was he supposed to do now?

     His eyes were drawn back to his body, and another wave of nausea washed over him. He was dead. It was one thing to decide to die, but to actually see the aftermath, the consequences of his actions — that was a whole other thing. He wasn't a fan, in all honesty.

     He paused, waiting for his heart to lurch. It didn't. He pressed a hand to his chest. 

     He could feel no heartbeat.

     He pressed harder, and then checked his pulse on his wrist and then his neck. Nothing. Not a beat.

     "Oh my..." Connor needed to sit down. He went to collapse onto his bed, but he passed right through and landed on the floor, and he found himself staring at the wooden slats and mattress. He yelped and scrabbled away, shuddering as he went through his bed again.

     On all fours, heaving in air that he probably didn't need, he stared at his body. His own pale face. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were closed. He was lying on his side — he remembered doing that deliberately, lying on his side on the ground. He didn't know why he didn't decide to die on his bed. Dramatic effect, maybe.

     It looked as if he could be asleep. Unconscious from drinking too much, or something.

     Connor felt something like a sob burst from his chest, and he sat back, hands clasped over his mouth. This was fucked. Seriously fucked.

     He closed his eyes and got to his feet again. He had to... He had to...

     What the fuck did he do now?

     Why was he even here? Why did ghosts exist? Unfinished business, or something? What unfinished business did he have?

     Oh, God. He was a ghost now. Right? He was a ghost? A spirit? A — what were they called? — poltergeist? What even was a fucking poltergeist?

     He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. "Fuck," he said. What was he meant to do? Was there anyone he could ask? Were there other dead people just walking around outside? Was there some kind of spiritual hotline to call if he needed help?

     He dropped his arms and opened his eyes, looking back to his body.

     He couldn't look at it anymore.

     "I have to get out of here," he said to himself, and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and opening them again.

     He would have had a heart attack if his heart was still beating as he found himself no longer in his room.

     He looked around his new surroundings frantically. Where the fuck was he? How did he get here? What time was it?

     The only source of light was a digital clock across the room, bright blue streaming onto the face of someone sleeping beside it.

     The clock said it was three minutes after five in the morning. He'd had taken the pills at maybe one thirty? Two? He couldn't remember; he hadn't checked the time.

     He moved closer to the sleeping person, treading lightly. Who was it? It wasn’t another dead person, was it? And why was Connor even here?

     He leant in, squinting. It was hard to tell from nothing but the light of the clock, but the face looked familiar. It was a guy, anyway. Short hair. White skin.

     The boy shifted in his sleep, and Connor retreated instantly. He watched as the boy turned over, facing away from the light, and took his arm out from the covers, tucking his hand under his chin. It looked almost child-like, like he was hugging the blanket to himself.

     It also gave Connor a good view of the cast on the boy's forearm. The cast that had Connor's name written on it, in big, ugly, black letters.

     Connor's brow furrowed. Evan Hansen?

     Connor's shoulders sagged, and he glanced around the room. His mind was like a damaged record, repeating nothing but _what the fuck?_ over and over again.

     "Oh, God," he whispered. He just wanted this to be over. He'd never have killed himself if he'd known this would happen.

     He looked back to Evan Hansen.

     Evan Hansen. It was his note, his weird-ass fucking letter, that had tipped Connor over the edge. He'd known Connor was in the library near the printer, and he'd written and printed that letter just to fuck Connor up.

     Connor had bolted after that. Just took off; never made it back home. His family hadn't bothered looking for him — no one had bothered. So what was the point of staying alive? If no one gave a shit?

     Connor scowled. Connor had died by suicide, but if you took Hansen's contribution into consideration with the letter, it was almost murder. Hansen seemed to be sleeping well, considering Connor had just killed himself.

     He hadn't even known the kid. He was just some loner freak that milled around doing nothing. Well, Connor was also a loner freak that milled around doing nothing, but the difference between him and Hansen was that he did that by choice. Connor chose not to have any friends; he didn't care if others thought he was a freak. He did nothing because he could. He didn't have to do anything if he didn't want to.

     Hansen, on the other hand — he didn't have any friends because he couldn't make any. There was that asshat Jared Kleinman, but that was it. And Kleinman was such a dick that Hansen couldn't really be friends with him, anyway. Surely not.

     Connor breathed out sharply, glowering at Hansen. "Fuck you," he growled. Hansen didn't stir.

     Who did the fuckhead think he was? Writing that shit about Zoe.

     Connor's train of thought snapped.

     Zoe.

     He blinked, and he was back in his room, with his body. He let out a bizarre noise of surprise. How had he...?

     He screwed up his face at the sight of his body. He wouldn't ever get used to that.

     He wondered when someone would find him. Probably not for a while. Maybe never. When would anyone ever bother to check? They hadn't even noticed he was gone.

     The thought of watching his own body decompose made him shudder.

     He looked to the clock on his wall to discover exactly one minute had passed since he’d returned from Hansen’s bedroom. Great. Weren't there any fast-forwarding powers he could unlock now that he was a ghost?

     Oh, fuck. He wouldn't be able to pick up his phone. He couldn't use his phone for the rest of eternity. Or his laptop.

     Connor groaned loudly. He wanted to die.

     He groaned even louder when he remembered that he was already dead.

     He sat on the ground with a sigh, and picked at his shoe, not knowing that to do.


	2. Discovery, pt. 2

     Connor didn't know how long he sat there for, but it only seemed like maybe fifteen minutes before he heard slight movement from another room.

     He noticed sunlight streaming through the gaps in his blinds, and, frowning, he looked to his clock.

     It was twenty to eight?

     Oh, thank God. He _did_ have fast-forwarding powers.

     He slowly stood up, listening as he heard his household coming to life. He heard Zoe banging around in her room; his mom clicking around the kitchen in her heels; his dad stomping halfway down the stairs to yell, “Cynthia, have you seen my belt? The black one?”

     A strange feeling settled in Connor’s stomach – a feeling he couldn’t name and had no interest in trying to name. He’d run away three days ago. Well, four, now. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. His family had stopped looking for him when he disappeared. Stopped caring, too. He was always gone for three to five days, and then returned, in various states of dishevelment. There had been that incident a year ago when he’d tried to see how much he could push his luck, but on day seven of sleeping on a bench in the park he’d been discovered by the cops that his mother had called to help find him.

     So he kept it to three to five days. He hated cops; he didn’t want to get involved with them if he could help it.

     But it was day four of his disappearance now, which means that his family wouldn’t be looking for him. Not yet.

     He didn’t know why he’d decided to come home to kill himself. Again, probably dramatic effect. Just to really twist the knife. _Not only did your son kill himself, but he did it right under your noses, and you didn’t even notice! Suck a fucking dick!_

     School started at nine; his family would be leaving soon enough.

     Curiously, Connor walked to his bedroom door, tried to turn the handle. His hand went through it, and he shivered. Eugh.

     Hesitantly, he tried putting his arm through the door. It went as if the door was made of air. "Christ, this is weird," he muttered, as he gradually eased himself through the door.

     He was halfway through when he felt a tug, and he found himself unable to go any further. He tried, but it was as if something was keeping him tied to his bedroom, some invisible force.

     Unable to stand the feeling of being inside a door any longer, he backed up into his bedroom again. Great. Now he couldn't fucking leave his bedroom, either.

     "Being dead sucks ass," he said aloud to no one.

     He could hear his family banging around in the kitchen. His mom was yelling something. She was always yelling. At his father, probably. Or Zoe. Though probably not Zoe.

     If Connor had been downstairs, his mom most definitely would have been yelling at him.

     But he wasn't downstairs. He was dead, in his room.

     That was a plus. His mom wouldn't yell at him anymore. His dad wouldn't ignore him. He wouldn't fight with Zoe anymore.

     For the first time since waking up dead, Connor managed a small smile. He felt... relieved.

     No more waking up early for school, either. No more sitting in class, no more homework and assignments and exams.

     Maybe being dead didn't suck that much ass, after all.

     He heard someone stomping up the stairs. "Connor!"

     It was Zoe. She sounded mad. What a surprise.

     "Connor, wake up!" Zoe started banging on his bedroom door. "Get up, you lazy piece of..."

     “Zoe,” their mom called from the bottom of the stairs, “Connor’s not home, honey, he ran off, remember?”

     Zoe ignored her. "Connor!" She banged on the door three more times. "I know you’re in there; I heard you come home last night.”

     Connor held his breath. He didn't know why he was nervous. Was this it? The big reveal? How would Zoe react?

     He had to admit he was surprised. Why had Zoe been up that late, anyway? She was a teacher’s pet. She was usually asleep at, like, nine thirty.

     Zoe clicked her tongue in irritation, and opened the door. “We're leaving in literally five minutes; get your—"

     The words died on her tongue as she saw Connor's body on the ground.

     Connor watched her intently. Watched the expressions on her face flicker from taken aback, to irritated, to unsure.

     She set her jaw, a frown creasing her brow.

     "Connor, get up," Zoe said harshly. She went forward and nudged his body with her foot. "Connor?"

     Connor huffed. Of course she'd assume that he'd just passed out or something.

     Zoe pursed her lips and glanced behind her, and then back at Connor's body. She bobbed down, tapping Connor on the cheek. "Hey, Connor. Wake up. C'mon."

     It was then that she noticed the pill bottles and the Jack Daniel's.

     When Connor and Zoe were young, back when they hadn't hated each other, they used to share a bedroom. It was great, for the most part. Their mom used to sit between their beds and read to them each night, and if Connor woke up from a bad dream then he'd wake Zoe up and she'd talk to him softly until he drifted off to sleep again, and vice versa. But it also meant that when one of them was sick, the other had to deal with it. Once, Zoe had caught a stomach bug. Their mom had sat beside her on her bed, holding a bowl under her chin, and Connor had watched on in horror as Zoe's face had grown paler and paler, greener and greener, until she'd thrown up into the bowl with a blood-curdling wretch.

     The look on Zoe's face at this moment reminded Connor of that — the second just before she'd hurled into the bowl when she was six years old.

     Zoe reached over Connor's body to grab the pill bottles, and stared at them in her hands, as if trying to gather more information. Then she dropped them, already forgotten about, and put her hand in front of Connor's mouth. "Connor?" she said, sounding a little stunned, but not panicked. _Which is what she should be. That’s what a normal sister would be. She should be freaking the fuck out right now_ , Connor thought bitterly. "Connor? Connor, wake up. Wake up."

     Just as Connor had done when he'd first woken up — if it could be called that — Zoe checked his wrist for his pulse, then his neck, and then she pushed his hoodie aside and put her head to his chest.

     Finding nothing, she sat back. "Oh my God," she muttered. She seemed completely at loss for a second. Then she opened her mouth and called, "Mom! Dad!"

     And then she sat, eyes wide, boring her gaze into her brother's dead body.

     Connor watched the whole thing without a word. There wouldn't be much point in speaking anyway, but if he'd been asked about this experience, he wouldn't know how to answer. It was... unsettling, to say the least.

     His parents didn't race up the stairs. In fact, they didn't even respond. Zoe had to yell for then again, and even then, all she got was a tense, "Zoe, what is it? We’re leaving in two minutes," from their mother.

     Zoe didn't take her eyes off the body. "Please," she called, "come here."

     She didn't look scared, or sad. Connor couldn't figure out what was going on in her head. Her face was almost neutral, apart from the clenched jaw and slight furrow between her brows. And the fact that she was as white as a sheet.

     Connor's mother came up the stairs. "What is the problem?" she asked, sounding tired and endlessly annoyed. "Zoe, I said that Connor’s not home. Can you get off the floor, please?”

     Zoe waited until her mother was close enough; she was almost at the doorway before Zoe spoke. "He's dead, Mom."

     "He— What?" Connor's mom lurched forward into the room, and screamed, falling to her knees by Connor's body.

     Connor’s lip curled. "You care about me now, huh?" he said. He shook his head. "Fuck you, Mom."

     His fists clenched and his shoulders tensed as his father hurried up the stairs. "Cynthia?"

     Connor's mom was sobbing, her face pressed into Connor's chest and her hands curled into his shirt. Zoe sat back, looking pale. Her face wasn't as neutral now — her lips were pursed, as if she were holding back tears.

     Zoe had always been like that. The moment her mother started crying, she would, too. Even if it was just a movie. As soon as their mother even became so much as misty-eyed, Zoe started bawling.

     Connor had never mentioned it to her. He didn't know if Zoe realised she even did it.

     His father stepped into the room, and froze in his tracks. "What... What happened?" he said. "Have you called an ambulance? Cynthia, what's wrong with him?"

     "He's dead, Dad," Zoe said harshly, and Connor felt something stir in him at that. He didn't know what, but something. And he didn't like it.

     His dad fumbled for his phone. After dialling, he pressed it to his ear. "I need an ambulance," he said, and Connor was stunned to hear that his voice shaking a little.

     "There's no point," Zoe said flatly, and stood up, disappearing out of the room.

     Connor's mom was still crying, stroking Connor's face. "Oh God, why?" She glanced up. "Zoe, where are you going?" she called.

     "To school," Zoe called back, and moments later, the front door slammed.

     "The ambulance should be here in about ten minutes," Connor's dad said. He put his phone away and rubbed his temple, staring at Connor's body. "Jesus Christ..."

     "What's the point?" Connor's mom said, her voice thick. She sniffed. "Larry, he's already... We don't know how long he's been like this."

     "Well, it's something," Connor’s father replied tersely, running his hand down his face. “Have– Have you tried CPR?”

     Connor’s mom had a moment where it looked like she was going to stop crying – a moment where she just looked disbelieving, as if Connor was a second away from opening his eyes – but then her face screwed up again, and fresh tears began to flow. She hid her face in Connor’s chest, sickening sobs wracking her body.

     Connor watched her with a blank face.

     His mother’s make-up was ruined by her crying. He took some satisfaction from that.

     His father continued to shift from foot to foot, starting to sweat under the arms, constantly rubbing at his face as if he had a beard and it was itchy.

     Connor took a breath in and walked over to him, standing close, right in his face. His heart was no longer beating, but if it were, it would be thudding against his ribcage. “Hey, old man,” he said quietly, squinting a little and cocking his head. “Why aren’t you crying? Your son’s dead on the floor, but you’re not crying. What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re a sick fuck.”

     His father, of course, didn’t reply. His arm swung and passed through Connor, and Connor let out a strangled sound of shock.

     Surprised, and embarrassed that he was surprised, Connor rounded on his father again. “Fuck you!” he yelled. “I fucking hate you! I hope you spend the rest of your life sitting up in bed at night because you can’t sleep because you spend the whole time wondering if your son _ever_ loved you in the first place before he fucking killed himself. And guess what? You didn’t! He fucking hated you! He hated you! I _hate you_!”

     He tried to shove his father, but he fell right through, and found himself standing at his open doorway. That he couldn’t walk through.

     It was the least satisfying thing Connor had ever had the displeasure of experiencing. He screamed in frustration and tried to kick the wall, but his foot went through it.

     “Fuck!” Connor spat out, gripping his hair. “Fuck! Fuck!”

     He squeezed his eyes shut and crumpled to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. His mother continued to wail. “Shut up!” he growled at her. “Shut up, Mom!”

     She continued to cry. His father continued to hover.

     Connor pressed his hands over his ears, expecting to hear the sound of his blood pumping and his heart beating rhythmically. But he heard nothing.

     Connor opened his eyes and let his hands drop.

     He looked over his shoulder to his parents.

     His parents, who were crying and stressing over his own dead body.

     He was _dead_.

     Connor got to his feet and just stood, staring at the scene before him, until he heard the siren of the ambulance rounding the corner and stopping outside his house.


	3. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid having a word-for-word regurgitation of the DEH book, for parts of this fic that are dialogue scenes in the musical, I've just gone off my memory of the bootleg that I've watched twice, a couple of weeks ago. Hope this doesn't bother anyone too much; it's just a personal preference! x

     The knock on the front door was loud, precise. Connor’s father jolted, clearly shaken from his thoughts, and hurried down the stairs. Connor went to follow, but the invisible force held him back.

     His mother was still crying, but silently now, letting out gentle whimpers every now and again. She still held Connor’s body; still stroked his dead face and squeezed his dead hand.

     Connor heard the front door open, and a number of footsteps rushing up the stairs. He turned to see the paramedics–

     And then he was looking at Evan Hansen.

     The deafening sounds of a school hallway erupted all around him, and he flinched. He looked around him, baffled as to why he was here. He felt like he’d just had a bucket of iced water dumped on his head. No – he felt like he’d just emerged from a bucket of iced water. Watching his parents with his own body, he’d felt like everything was numb. This was the complete opposite. “What?”

     He sucked in a gasp as someone walked straight through him. “That’s so fuckin’ weird,” he muttered to himself. Someone else walked past, their arm and shoulder passing through his as if he wasn’t even there.

     Which he wasn’t. In a way.

     Connor shook his head and looked to that Hansen kid again, who was at his locker, very slowly getting everything he needed for the day. Contrary to what he’d seen the night before, Hansen _didn’t_ look like he’d had a good sleep – he was pale, with shadows under his eyes. His polo shirt was crumpled, unironed.

     His cast still had Connor’s name on it. Connor didn’t know why he was surprised. It wasn’t like Hansen could wash it off.

     Hansen glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment Connor thought it might have been because Hansen had seen him, but Connor wasn’t even in his line of sight.

     Hansen hid his face in his locker again, bowing his head. Now he was just standing there like an idiot, and – were his eyes closed? And his lips were moving. Was he talking to himself?

     Connor screwed up his nose and shook his head. Fucking freak.

     Someone walked through Connor – _ugh_ – and opened their locker, two down from Hansen. Hansen jumped as if he’d been electrocuted, and hurriedly returned to collecting his stuff.

     Connor huffed and crossed his arms, looking around the bustling hallway. Why was he here? With Hansen again?

     A part of Connor couldn’t help but wonder what Zoe was doing. Was she crying? Probably not. She was probably pretending as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t found her dead brother literally five minutes before she left for school. Heartless bitch.

     Spurred on by the strong belief that he had to be right, that Zoe was probably with her friends, laughing and smiling like a fucking psychopath, Connor went to go find her. But he didn’t take two steps before he found he couldn’t walk any further. Just like back home, in his bedroom.

     His shoulders dropped and he slowly turned around to stare daggers into Hansen’s back. “You?” he said, his voice dripping with venom. Why was he somehow weirdly tied to _Hansen_? What stupid fucking God decided that he’d be superglued to Evan fucking Hansen for probably all eternity?

     Speaking of God – “Is this Hell?” Connor asked no one in particular, looking up at the ceiling. “Am I in Hell? Because congratulations, you’ve succeeded. I could not think of a worse outcome for me right now. This is literally the worst thing that could have happened to me. I’d rather be tied up in chains above a river of lava and whipped with a flaming, poisoned, barbed whip. I would _thank_ you.”

     Connor wasn’t expecting a response, and he didn’t get one. “‘God’ my ass,” he muttered. “Doesn’t even fucking exist.”

     The bell rang, and the hallway came alive with movement as students moved off in pairs or trios to class.

     Hansen did not move off in a pair or a trio. He moved by himself, like the friendless loner he was.

     And Connor found his feet carrying him, trailing after Hansen.

     “For fuck’s sake,” Connor groaned. People continued to walk through him, and Connor tried to ignore it.

     Hansen kept his head down as he walked, his shoulders curled in on himself. The hand of his broken arm fiddled with the hem of his shirt every now and again.

     Connor kept as far away from him as possible – he could manage fifteen or sixteen feet if he really tried. He didn’t want to be here. And he didn’t want to be with his dead body, either.

     Could he go anywhere else?

     Connor closed his eyes and willed himself to be at the local park.

     He opened his eyes. He was still walking behind Hansen.

     Connor sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes. How the fuck did these ghost powers work? What was the point in having them if he couldn’t use them?

     And so he followed Hansen to class.

     Connor took back what he’d said before: being dead _did_ suck ass. A whole _lot_ of ass. He couldn’t believe he was back in a classroom.

     He sat on the floor, his back against the wall – somehow, he didn’t fall through the wall. Or the floor.

     He shook his head. None of this made any fucking sense.

     He stared at the floor. A second later, the bell was ringing, and the classroom swarmed with students hurrying to leave.

     Another time jump?

     Connor blinked, and, not having control over his own body, rose, and followed Hansen to the next class. Did Hansen ever stay still? He was always shuffling or fidgeting or twitching, never pausing for a moment.

     It was slowly driving Connor insane.

     Every time Hansen glanced his way, or seemed to hesitate, Connor thought that he’d seen him. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that Hansen was meant to be seeing him.

     But Hansen clearly couldn’t see him.

     And for whatever reason, it made Connor feel uncomfortable. Like something was wrong.

     The next class didn’t go for long before the PA system crackled and a voice summoned Hansen to the front office.

     Connor would have followed even if he’d had a choice. Why was Hansen, of all people, being called to the front office? He never did anything wrong. He never did _anything_.

     Connor had to admit, it was a beautiful sound to hear it was Hansen being called, and not him. God knew how many times he’d heard the awful sound of, _Connor Murphy, please report to the front office_.

     Hansen didn’t look like he was handling it well. He’d started breathing a little faster, and he kept wiping his palms on his ugly khaki jeans.

     Connor followed Hansen into the front office, and into the principal’s office where the receptionist – Sally, Connor had had more than a few conversations with her – directed him.

     In there was principal McKenzie. If Connor was Batman, then Mr McKenzie was the Joker.

     And he _was_ a joker. Or rather, a joke. A complete, fucking joke.

     His stupid fucking moustache twitched when he spoke, and Connor had always wanted to tear the thing off and set it on fire. Or maybe just set it on fire when it was still attached to his stupid fucking face.

     But Mr McKenzie wasn’t alone. Opposite him sat Connor’s parents.

     All three adults rose when Hansen entered the room, Connor’s parents turning to face him. Like Hansen was the belle of the ball, and the three of them were potential suitors wanting to impress the fair maiden.

     Connor normally would’ve laughed to himself at his own joke. It _was_ a pretty funny mental image. But he was too unnerved.

     Why were his parents here? What did they want with Evan Hansen?

     “Evan,” Mr McKenzie said, as Connor’s parents shuffled off to the side a little to give Hansen some room.

     Hansen twisted his shirt in his hands, looking sweaty and confused and nervous. “Am I…”

     “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.” Mr McKenzie gestured to Connor’s parents. His moustache twitched. Connor hated it. “Evan, this is Cynthia and Larry Murphy. Connor’s parents. Although I’m sure you know that already, to some degree, at least.”

     Hansen looked to them, and gave a little nod of his head, although Connor could see, clear as day, that the guy had no idea what Mr McKenzie was on about. After a moment, Hansen realised that Connor’s parents seemed to be expecting something, so he stammered out, “H-hello.”

     Connor’s mother smiled at him, teary-eyed. Even Connor’s father managed a nod and a small smile.

     Mr McKenzie sighed. “Well, I’ll leave you three to it.” He manoeuvred himself out from behind his desk and squeezed Hansen’s shoulder, smiling sympathetically as he went past. He walked through Connor as he left the room, shutting the door very gently behind him.

     Hansen continued to not say anything. Connor wondered why the hell that was. If he was in Hansen’s position, the questions would be flying. He wished Hansen would ask something, say something, just so _Connor_ could find out what the fuck was going on.

     “It’s so nice to meet you, Evan,” Connor’s mom said. She was clutching a crumpled tissue in her hand.

     Hansen didn’t move. He licked his lips before speaking, still looking like he’d been caught by the Feds with ten pounds of cocaine in his hand. “What’s th-this about?”

     Connor’s mom and dad glanced at each other. “Why don’t you take a seat?” his dad suggested, gesturing to one of the chairs.

     Hansen immediately did so, without so much as a pause. He perched his button the very edge of it, as if he were two seconds from charging out the door.

     Connor didn’t blame him. But at the same time, if that fucker left before Connor found out what the fuck was going on…

     His dad gestured to the second chair, and his mom said down. His dad stood beside her, his hand resting on the back of the chair, either as an extra support for his mother or for himself. Probably himself. He only ever thought about himself.

     Connor’s mother took a shaky breath. “This is about Connor,” she said, as if this would explain everything.

     Connor pulled a face.

     What the fuck were his parents doing talking to Hansen about _him_?

     “Abo-about… C-Connor?” Hansen said, sounding a little more panicked than before, if that were possible.

     “Yes,” Connor’s dad said. “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s, um, going on. You… probably haven’t heard from him in–”

     “Three days,” Hansen cut in, “no, I – I haven’t. Heard. From– from him. Or, um, heard… about hi– anything he’s, uh, he’s done.”

     Connor narrowed his eyes, a frown creasing his brow. He waited to hear where the fuck Hansen thought he was going with this.

     Connor’s mother nodded. “Right,” she said, almost to herself. Gathering up energy to speak. Like she ever needed to do that. “Well, to be honest, we didn’t actually know that Connor had any friends.”

     Connor snorted. “Thanks, Mom,” he drawled. As if she knew anything about him at all.

     “Okay,” Hansen said quietly, more confused now than panicked.

     “Until we, um…” With shaking hands, Connor’s mom went to reach into her pocket, but his dad laid a hand on hers.

     “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he murmured to her. He looked to Hansen. “Evan, we called you in here to tell you that our son… took his own life, last night.”

     Hansen froze. He didn’t say a word. Connor couldn’t even see that he was breathing.

     Connor’s mother let out a wet sniff, and pressed her tissue to her nose. “And, um…” she managed to get out. She took a second to gather herself, and tried again. “And we found his, um, his suicide note–”

     “Suicide note?” Connor repeated, baffled.

     “Suicide note?” Hansen said at the same time.

     “–in his back pocket.”

     Connor instinctively went to his own back pocket, and sure enough, he felt a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out as his mother did the same.

     “It was addressed to you,” his father said.

     “Me?” Hansen said, his eyes wide.

     “Yes,” Connor’s mom said. She unfolded it and glanced at it, before handing it over to Hansen. “‘Dear Evan Hansen’–”

     Connor’s mouth fell open. “Are you _kidding_ me?” he said. _That_ note? They thought that that piece of _garbage_ was his _suicide note_?

     Hansen snatched it off her and stood up quickly, backing away. “Oh, no,” he blurted out, “no, no, this isn’t a suicide note.”

     “I know it’s hard to accept, son,” Connor’s father said placatingly, holding out a hand.

     “No no no, you don’t understand,” Hansen pleaded, “this is– _I_ wrote this, it– it was just some st-stupid a-a-assign-assignment I had t-to do, Connor didn’t write this–”

     Connor’s parents moved over towards him. “Evan, Connor _did_ write this,” his mom said gently. “He talks about Zoe, and it’s addressed to you, and he says that you were his most best, dearest friend. You couldn’t have written it.”

     “No, please–”

     “You’re deluding yourself,” Connor’s dad said soothingly. “We’re all grieving. It’s okay.”

     “You’re fucking insane,” Connor breathed in disbelief. “I can’t fucking believe you two.”

     “Thi-this is a huge m-misunderst-standing,” Hansen continued to babble. “I’m– I’m sor-sorry, I’m so sorry, this is– is mine, C-Connor took– took it from m-me, I–”

     He was silenced by Connor’s mother gasping. “Larry,” she said softly, gripping her husband’s arm. “His cast.”

     All eyes fell on Hansen’s cast.

     With Connor’s name written all over it.

     If this wasn’t some kind of lesson to never be nice to anyone, ever, then Connor didn’t know what it was.

     His mom whimpered and went over to Hansen, touching his cast with a kind of reverence, like it was damn baby Jesus.

     “You really were his only friend,” Connor’s mom whispered.

     Hansen said nothing.

     “Hansen…” Connor growled.

     “Let us have you for dinner,” Connor’s mom said.

     Hansen shook his head. “Oh, no, I really–”

     “It would mean a lot to us,” Connor’s dad cut in.

     “We won’t take no for an answer,” his mom said with a sad smile.

     Hansen’s eyes flicked between them.

     “Don’t you fucking dare,” Connor said.

     “We just want to hear about Connor,” his mom said. “All those things you two must have done together that we never heard about? We just…” She looked back to Connor’s dad, and took his hand. “We just want to hear about your memories together. It would make us so happy.”

     Connor let out a bitter laugh. “Happy?” he said. “ _Happy_? Why the fuck are you pretending, Mom? You’re only _happy_ to hear about me now because I’m dead and you don’t have to deal with me anymore! Un-fucking-believable.”

     “Um, yeah, o-okay,” Hansen said in a tiny voice.

     Connor tried to kick a chair, and failed.

     His parents beamed.

     “Can I go now?” Hansen asked, his voice still soft, and when Connor’s parents nodded, he bolted from the room. Connor had no choice but to follow.


	4. Suicide Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this chapter so much shorter than the others? don't ask me! i don't have a fucking clue, my guy.

     They were halfway back to Hansen’s class when Connor thought to himself, _I just really want to be alone right now_.

     The next step he took was in his bedroom.

     He stopped.

     Wasn’t he tied to his body? How was he in his room?

     He tried to leave his room, to just walk out, but the invisible force prevented him from doing so.

     So he was somehow bound to his bedroom, and Evan Hansen.

     Well, at least that was something he knew. He didn’t know _why_ , but at least he knew _what_.

     He looked down at the folded letter in his hand. Of all the things that could’ve been in his pocket. Not his phone, or… What else could he have had to occupy his time? A joint? A Rubik’s cube? Some paper and a pen or something? He couldn’t fit his laptop in his pocket.

     The realisation hit him hard: he could never smoke again. Not weed, not cigarettes, not anything.

     “ _No_ ,” Connor moaned in agony, sliding to the floor. “ _Why_ , God? _Why_?”

     He buried his face in his hands.

     But he hadn’t had the urge to smoke since dying, either. No cravings. He’d actually forgotten about it until just that moment.

     He lifted his head and sighed. Well, if this note was the only goddamn thing he had on his person, he may as well read it.

     He didn’t know why it was in his pocket. He hadn’t actually read it properly. He’d just seen Hansen’s name, and then Zoe’s name, and _Zoe Murphy is my only hope_ or some freaky shit like that.

     How the fuck had his parents thought it was a suicide note?

     He unfolded it.

 

_Dear Evan Hansen_

As if that wasn’t a weird enough way to start a letter. Referring to himself in third fucking person.

_Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be?_

_I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me. Maybe if I could just talk to her. Maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different._

_I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean face it, would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_

_Sincerely, your most best, and dearest friend,_

_Me_

 

     Connor stared at the letter. He stared at it. He stared at it some more.

     He didn’t feel right. There was something about the letter that sat poorly with him. Maybe it was because some of the words rang a little too true. Maybe because he could believe that his parents thought it was a suicide note.

     Or probably because Evan Hansen was creeping on his sister like a fucking creep.

     Connor screwed up his face and tore the note in half, then in quarters, then just kept ripping and tearing until the note was nothing but little scraps dotted with black ink. They fluttered to the ground, covering his thighs and the carpet.

     Connor blinked, and the scraps were gone.

     He sighed. “Don’t fucking tell me…” He reached into his back pocket, and there the note was, folded up again, completely unharmed.

     He didn’t know how long he spent tearing up the letter, each new version of it, destroying it over and over again. Turning it into a paper aeroplane and sending it flying, only to have it disappear mid-air. Scrunching it up and trying to play catch with himself against the wall, only to have it vanish into the wall instead of bouncing off. Folding it into a crude paper hat, only to find that he no longer had a reflection in the shitty little mirror hanging on the back of his door.

     Time continued. Connor did not. But at least, now, he had that letter. Whether he liked it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter coming soon! thank u all for reading/commenting/leaving kudos/some of the above/all of the above! x


	5. A Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now this chapter is super long! yay for continuity. i am currently, surprise surprise, procrastinating doing homework, so i thought i'd update. thank u to everyone who's commented so far, i love hearing ur thoughts about this fic!  
> so this is basically the events of 'For Forever', but in dialogue form. i've tried to fashion what evan says in the song into believable dialogue, so i hope it reads smoothly and makes sense and all that x

     It was unsettling, to say the least, to suddenly look up at the clock and see that hours had passed in what felt like thirty minutes.

     Connor didn’t know how it worked. Did he just stop existing for a while, and only start existing again when he heard a noise or something interesting happened? Or did he just sit there while time sped past him, like the world was on fast-forward and he didn’t realise?

     He could hear voices downstairs. He huffed, wishing that he could go down to see what was going on.

     And then he _was_ downstairs, sitting on the floor in the living room, in the middle of the coffee table. He made a sound of surprise and shot to his feet, stumbling out of the way. How was he–

     Oh.

     Evan Hansen was sitting on his couch.

     That’s right – Connor’s parents had invited him over to dinner.

     The guy didn’t look at all comfortable. He clutched a glass of water in his hands – as best he could with the cast – and Connor could see the sweaty handprints he left as he shifted the glass. He barely made eye contact with anyone in the room. Again, for just a moment, Connor expected him to look over and see Connor standing there. But it didn’t happen.

     Zoe wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Connor assumed she’d come to say hello and then fucked off as soon as she could. Connor’s mom was sitting on the couch, and his dad was on the armchair on the other side of Hansen.

     Connor’s mom was talking. As always. “…surprised we’d never even heard your name before,” she was saying.

     Hansen took a small intake of breath. “Oh, yeah, no, um, well, C-Connor, he was nev-never, um… He didn’t talk a lot, you know? So.”

     “That’s true, he didn’t,” Connor’s dad said. He shook his head. “God, there’s so much we didn’t know about him.”

     “Well, that’s why Evan’s here, isn’t it?” Connor’s mom said with a smile, reaching out to pat Hansen’s knee.

     He let out a nervous, awkward-sounding bleat, and then blurted, “Dinner– uh, what are you? The– the, uh, whatever you’re cooking, it smells great.”

     Connor paused. He could smell something cooking, but it didn’t appeal to him. He frowned, and sniffed. It was… a pasta something? He secretly loved pasta. The smell of it should’ve made his mouth water, but instead it just smelled like… Well, it smelled like pasta, but it didn’t have an effect on Connor at all. Like his mom had made cardboard for dinner.

     Connor realised he’d never eat pasta again. And, now, probably, he’d never even like the smell of pasta ever again. Or food.

     He pouted.

     His mom gasped. “Oh yes, of course, dinner. You must be starving.” She rose and ushered Hansen into the kitchen. “Larry, set the table, would you?” She ducked her head out of the kitchen doorway. “Zoe!” she called. “Dinner!”

     “Coming,” Connor heard Zoe call back.

     Hansen hovered, as he seemed to enjoy doing, while Connor’s mom flittered around him, getting the pasta bake out of the oven and the boiled potatoes off the stove and the corn and peas out of the microwave and telling her husband to get the heat mat and set it on the table so she could bring the bake over, and Connor’s dad was telling her to _stop yelling at me, woman_ and _I can only do one thing at a time_ , and then Zoe dove into the mix, getting a drink out of the fridge, and then Connor’s mom was not-so-subtly stage-whispering at her to offer Hansen a drink, and Hansen stood with his back pressed against the wall, silent, gripping the same glass of water from before.

     Connor’s mom seemed to notice eventually that he was there, and steered him towards the dining table, gesturing to Connor’s seat, and Connor felt a flash of anger as Hansen sat down.

     “That’s _my_ seat,” Connor growled. Who did this prick think he was, just walking into his own and sitting in his seat?

     Not that Connor had sat there for a while. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hung around for a family meal. But still.

     Zoe didn’t sit in her seat. She sat at the head of the table, not looking at Hansen, slouching in her seat as she picked at her nails. She didn’t offer him a drink.

     Finally, Connor’s father was seated and the table was set, and Connor’s mom was serving the pasta bake and vegetables.

     “This looks, um, really nice,” Hansen said. “Thank you so much.”

     “Don’t thank us,” Connor’s mom said. “I can’t believe Connor didn’t invite you over here for dinner one night! You would have always been more than welcome.”

     Zoe snorted. Everyone pretended not to hear.

     “How was school, Zoe?” Connor’s mom asked.

     “Fine,” Zoe said shortly, pushing her peas around on her plate with her fork.

     Connor’s mom paused, and then moved on. “Okay,” she said in a level tone – Connor could tell she was desperately trying to stay calm – and set the bake on the table, sliding into her seat. “Well, dig in before it gets cold.”

     Everyone started eating. Both Zoe and Hansen seemed intent on getting their meals down as quickly as possible – Zoe probably wanted to leave, and Hansen seemed eager to avoid conversation.

     Connor walked over and stood over Hansen. “Hey,” he said.

     No response.

     “ _Hey_.”

     Nothing.

     Connor waved a hand through Hansen’s head.

     Hansen continued eating.

     “Fucking asshole,” Connor muttered. But he felt uneasy again. Why couldn’t Hansen see him? Why should he be able to, anyway? Connor couldn’t answer that one. He didn’t have a ghost manual to refer to. But he had some weird kind of intuition, or gut feeling, or whatever it was called. Connor wasn’t meant to be as alone as he was. He was, somehow, meant to have some kind of connection to the living world. And for whatever fucking reason, Hansen was his designated gateway. But, surprise surprise, his gateway wasn’t working. It was faulty. It was broken.

     So far, Hansen had fucked up both Connor’s life, _and_ his death.

     “So, Evan,” his mom said, making Hansen freeze up for a moment, before looking up somewhat reluctantly.

     “Mm? Um, yes?”

     Connor’s mom spread her hands. “Can you… Well, tell us about yourself, first, I suppose.”

     “If you don’t mind me saying,” interjected Connor’s dad, “you seem to be… very… _different_ from Connor.”

     “The Connor that we saw, anyway,” Connor’s mom added.

     Connor scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Because we _weren’t friends_ , Mom,” he said. “Idiot.”

     “Yeah,” Hansen said noncommittally. “Yeah, um, we were– we were different.”

     “Connor never mentioned you,” Connor’s mom said. “I didn’t know he had any friends at all.”

     “He didn’t,” Zoe said, her voice hard.

     “Zoe,” Connor’s mom said tightly.

     “He didn’t _have_ any friends, Mom,” Zoe said. “I never saw him hanging out at school with anyone, let alone Evan.”

     “That’s, um,” Hansen jumped in, “that’s because Connor didn’t– didn’t like us being seen together? A-At school? He – well, we were really different, so he didn’t, um… He didn’t want people to– to know w-we were, um, we were friends.”

     “The only time I saw you and Connor even in the same room,” Zoe said, sounding almost venomous, “was when Connor pushed you over on the first day of school.”

     “He _pushed_ you _over_?” Connor’s mom gasped, horrified.

     “He didn’t, uh, we’d had– had a fight, that’s– that’s all,” Hansen said quickly. Connor could see how pale and panicked he was – couldn’t anyone else? How blind were his parents? Zoe was the only one even vaguely making sense. For once in her life. “About, you know – I wanted us to, um, be more – I didn’t want to have to pretend, uh, n-not to be friends? Anymore? And he, well, he disagreed, so.”

     “It’s still not okay that he pushed you over, Evan,” Connor’s mom said.

     “He didn’t mean it,” Hansen insisted with a frantic shake of his head.

     Connor stuck his middle finger up at him, right next to his head. “I did mean it, freak,” he said. “I meant it and if I could, I’d do it again. I’d break your other fucking arm.” He dropped his hand and bent down, leaning in close. “And I’d break your friend Jared fucking Kleinman’s arms, too. Kick his fucking knees in. And if you tried to stop me, I’d kick your knees in, and snap each of your gross, clammy fingers one by one. You know why? Because I could. And because you’re in my house, in my seat, talking about me like you knew me. Putting words in my fucking mouth. Well, guess what, Hansen? I _meant_ to shove you over. It’s my _favourite_ memory of us. If only I’d filmed it. I’d watch it _over_ and _over_ again.”

     No response from Hansen, as expected.

     “I didn’t even see your name in his phone, or his emails, or anything,” Connor’s dad said.

     “You went through his phone and his _emails_?” Connor’s mom said, astounded, at the same time Connor said, “You went through my fucking _phone_?”

     “Someone had to,” Connor’s dad said. “I just… I don’t know.”

     “We didn’t text,” Hansen said. “Or email. Well. We, um, we had – he had a s-secret email account? We used to– to talk like, um, like that.”

     “A secret email account?” Zoe repeated, clearly not buying it.

     “Yeah,” Hansen said, not looking at her. “It was secret, so, um.”

     “Really,” Zoe said.

     Hansen nodded, little jerky movements of his head. “Mm-hm. And that’s why he– that’s why we’d, um, had a fight. And why he n-never, um, invited me over,” Hansen added, as if the idea had just occurred to him. It probably had. “I mean, he did. Invite me over. I’ve – I’ve been here before, a couple of, um – w-when no one was home. Other-otherwise we’d, um, go– go to mine.” The end of his sentences often trailed away into almost a question.

     Connor hated it. He stepped back, as if physically repelled by Hansen.

     “But– But we m-mostly hung out, um, out– outside of… of school. And houses– our houses– each other’s… Yeah.”

     “Well, where?” Connor’s mom said, frowning. “Where did you go?”

     Evan’s eyes flicked around the room, settling for a moment – just a moment – on something in the kitchen, and then back to his plate. “The… apple… place?”

     Connor almost laughed at that. “The ‘apple place’? Oh my _God_.”

     He was expecting his family to jump on that, but instead his mother just pressed a hand to her collarbones, her eyes immediately shining with unshed tears. “He took you to the orchard?” she whispered.

     Something twisted in Connor’s chest. He stepped back a little further.

     The apple orchard. _The_ apple orchard. One of the few places where Connor remembered actually enjoying spending time with his family. Running around with Zoe, trying to climb trees and then getting told off by their parents. Apple pie and ice cream – _Can’t go to an apple orchard without having some apple pie!_ his mom used to say – and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. That one time the Frisbee had gotten stuck way up high, and his dad had hoisted him up onto a nearby branch to retrieve it.

     No way would Hansen go along with this. He had no idea what kind of memories were tied to that place. There’s no fucking way– “The orchard, yeah, exactly,” Hansen said, nodding, with some weird sound that might have been a laugh. It was the ugliest laugh Connor had ever heard.

     “Remember we used to go there when you and Conner were kids, Zoe?” Connor’s mom said, turning to her daughter. “The family picnics we had? Oh,” she sighed, pressing a hand over her mouth and shaking her head. “Oh, and the ice cream, remember? That little ice cream place along the way, Larry, what was it called?”

     “Á La Mode,” Connor’s dad said with a nod.

     “Yes, Á La Mode!” Connor’s mom turned back to Hansen. “Did he take you to Á La Mode?”

     “Uh, y-yeah, of course,” Hansen said.

     Connor’s blood would have boiled if it was still pumping.

     “Tell us,” Connor’s mom pleaded. “Please, we want to hear everything.”

     Connor glanced at his family members. His dad, for once, was paying attention, and even Zoe, despite her sour face, was watching Hansen intently.

     Hansen seemed to realise for the first time that he had an audience, and he ducked his head, his hand reaching up as if to scratch his head, but stopped at his forehead, his fingers trailing along his hairline. He let out another one of those ugly laughs – a nervous chuckle, Connor realised – and said, shaking his head, “It– It– It really… It wasn’t–”

     Connor’s mom stood up and went around to him, crouching down next to him, and took his hand, revealing his face.

     Hansen looked surprised, to say the least.

     “Evan, please,” Connor’s mom said softly. “I know it probably sounds strange, especially since it sounds like you had so many good memories with Connor, but we… Connor was very…” She exhaled. “It would just be so nice to hear a story about Connor. A nice story. Could you tell us about the day he took you to the orchard?”

     Something must have happened to Hansen’s already dubious moral compass at that moment. Connor had no idea what, but instead of stammering and stuttering his way through an apology and about how this was all some _terrible mix-up_ like Connor thought he would, Hansen’s hands stopped shaking as much. He managed to make eye contact with Connor’s mother. And he said, “Okay.”

     Connor’s mom smiled and nodded, squeezing Hansen’s hand, and went back to her seat.

     “Stop,” Connor said, as Hansen took a breath in.

     But he didn’t stop.

     “It w-was… either, um, the end of May,” Hansen began, “or– or early June, I don’t know, I can’t – I don’t remember. But, um, but Connor… h-he– we’d arranged – we knew we w-were, um, gonna hang out, so Connor… he picked m-me up, a-and he s-said, um, he– he was like, ‘I– I wanna show you this place. That I kn-know,’ a-and so I, um, I said, ‘O-okay, sure, let’s, um, I’m– I’m– let’s go,’ and we dr-drove there – to the apple or-orchard. And on the way, we, um, we stopped at, uh… at Á La Mode. I got– I got str-strawberry, and he… he, um, Connor got, um–”

     “If you say chocolate, I will kill you,” Connor said.

     “–coo-cookies and cream.”

     Connor narrowed his eyes. He loved cookies and cream. “I’m still gonna kill you,” he said.

     “And…” Hansen hesitated. “W-Well, we arr-arrived at the orchard, and he… showed me th-this… It was a, um, a f-field, w-with trees, um, all around. So we, uh, sat d-down with our ice– ice cream, and we… we just… talked, I guess.”

     “About what?” Connor’s mom asked.

     Hansen shrugged. “Y-y’know, n-normal stuff. Um, school, and music and bands that we– that we liked, and, um, and inside– inside jokes, and… and g-girls we– we liked.” His cheeks went pink, and his eyes darted over to Zoe for a split second before he continued. Connor’s lip curled. “But m-mostly we just lay– lay back and… looked at the sky.”

     Hansen smiled a little, as if somehow remembering this stupid fake memory with fondness, and a little sadness. “The sky was really pretty that day,” he said softly. “It just… went on forever. And if you looked up at it, and didn’t pay attention to anything else, part of you felt like you could go on forever, too.”

     With the same look on his face, Hansen shifted in his seat, a slight frown creasing his brow ever so slightly. “And Connor looked to me… He looked at me, and he said, ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and no one else I’d rather be here with.’ And I… I just said, ‘Yeah, me too.’”

     He seemed to come to, and continued. “And then we… After we– we finished our– our ice creams, we w-walked around. Looking at– at the trees.”

     “That sounds lovely,” Connor’s mom said. She was crying, of course, and she wiped at her eyes with her fingers and sniffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Look at me, crying all over the place.” She went to the kitchen to get a tissue and blew her nose. She sat back down at the table, and Connor’s dad took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Connor’s mom gave him a watery smile.

     Hansen took a breath in. “We,” he started out loudly, and then seemed embarrassed by the fact that he’d raised his voice, so he started again, much more quietly. “We, um, talked ab-about what we’d like to, um, to do a-after school? You– you know, th-things we… we could do? Together? L-Like, um… He, well, he, uh – like, crazy things that we’d… we’d never ac-actually do, but it w-was fun to talk about? Like, j-just pretend? You know? I s-said we should try to, um, do the Appalachian trail. Like– like, b-bike riding? I never g-got into… I n-never really– I’ve never done much, um, bike riding, so I thought it’d be fun. Or write a book? I– Connor said he’d always w-wanted to – to write a book. Or m-maybe sailing – he liked boats. He liked the idea of… of boats. Boating. Sailing. He– He thought w-we could tr-try it. Someday.”

     Connor had never wanted to write a book. He’d never liked reading, either. And _sailing_? The only sailing he’d ever wanted to do was to sail through high school without consequence.

     He couldn’t believe just how much everyone was lapping it up. His mom, his dad, even Zoe – they were all watching Hansen as if he was some god imparting eternal wisdom upon them.

     If Connor thought, before he’d died, that they didn’t give a shit about him – well, this just proved it. They didn’t even know that everything Hansen was saying that he’d done, that he’d said, was all one giant fucking lie. They had no fucking clue.

     Connor’s dad spoke. “We could’ve hired a boat,” he said, his forehead crumpled, like he was trying to understand something. “One weekend. If I’d known that he’d wanted to. I had no idea. He could’ve just asked.”

     “He wanted to – to wait,” Hansen jumped in. “Until after school finished.”

     “But why?”

     Hansen swallowed, and shrugged, shaking his head. “I… I don’t know.”

     “Did you go home after that?” Connor’s mom said. “After walking through the trees?”

     Hansen paused, watching her, and then said, “N-no.”

     Connor groaned and rolled his head back. “Jesus Christ, this is still going?” He scowled at Hansen. “Maybe if you’d stopped stuttering like an idiot and could actually speak like a normal human being, it wouldn’t take ten fucking years to tell some made-up story about literally going to a place with trees and eating fucking ice cream.”

     But Hansen powered on, nevertheless. “Connor… He ran to this, um, this tree? It was b-big, so tall. A-And he just… He started – he raced up– up th-this thing, l-like a… like some kind of m-monkey, almost, and– and so I followed him, and we… we went…” Hansen shook his head, gesturing vaguely. “Up, and up, and– and up, as high as we could– as we could go.” He smiled a little. “And the sun was… y’know, it was, um, warm, and it was… it was so nice, up there.”

     After a moment, his gaze dropped, and he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “And then, um, then I fell,” he was simply with a slight shrug of one shoulder, ignoring the horrified gasp of Connor’s mother. “Just the, uh, the branch, um, underneath me – gave way, and I just… I fell.”

     “Oh, Evan,” Connor’s mother breathed. “What happened?”

     “I don’t, um, I don’t really remember… how I landed?” Hansen said, still not lifting his head again. “Maybe I… hit my head, or had my eyes closed, I don’t…” He shook his head. “I think I, um, m-maybe I came t-to, or something, and then I re– I realised my arm was numb, and it– it hurt to, um, to breathe, a little – uh, a lot, actually, um – but I w-was just winded, I was fine.”

     “It’s incredible you survived that fall,” Connor’s dad said with raised eyebrows. “You could’ve been seriously injured, or worse.”

     Hansen didn’t say anything for a good few moments, and then just said, “Yeah. I c-could’ve. But I… wasn’t.”

     Connor frowned a little at that. Hansen sounded almost... disappointed? Certainly not as relieved as he thought he'd sound.

     Hansen paused again, and then continued. “But then Connor… he came racing d-down that, um, that tree, just as– as fast as h-he’d gone up – I s-saw him, climbing down as… as qu-quickly as he could.” He let out another one of those ugly laughs of his, but it was quieter now, almost nothing more than a sharp exhale of air. His face was crumpled in a deep frown, his chin tucked into his chest, his voice a little strained.

     Connor went closer to him, bobbing down to see his face. Hansen was lying through his teeth – why was he acting like it had all actually happened? Why did he seem genuinely… _affected_ by his own bull? Was he just that good of an actor?

     “And I… I knew,” Hansen said, “that… because Connor was there, everything– everything would b-be okay. And… it was.”

     Connor had never heard the dining room so silent. Everyone was still.

     “This is bullshit,” Connor said disbelievingly. He shook his head. “This is bullshit.”

     “I thought the apple orchard shut down eight years ago,” Connor’s dad said.

     Hansen’s head snapped up. “I know, that’s why we were so bummed when we got there,” he said quickly. “Which is, um, why Connor _showed_ me the – did I not make that clear? I’m sorry, I was – he– the apple orchard? And, um, we _went_ somewhere… else. A little… further on.” He nodded and cleared his throat.

     Zoe shot to her feet without warning, her chair scraping on the floor so loudly that Hansen flinched, and she disappeared from the room.

     Connor’s father sighed, and looked over his shoulder, calling, “Zoe!” but Connor’s mom put her hand on his, murmuring, “Let her go.”

     Hansen blinked in surprise. “Is– is she–”

     “She’s fine,” Connor’s mom said. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Thank you for telling us that story, Evan,” she said, pressing a hand over her heart. “You have no idea how nice it is to hear that you have such happy memories with Connor.”

     “We didn’t get to see that side of him a lot,” Connor’s dad said. “Or at all, really.”

     “Not for a long time,” Connor’s mom agreed with a nod. “But I’m so glad that that part of him is… was still there. At least he showed that part of him to someone.”

     “ _What_ ‘part’ of me?” Connor cried, throwing his arms out. “What the fuck does that mean?” He rounded on Hansen. “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out of my house! Who the fuck do you think you are? Get _out_!” He stormed over to Hansen, trying to shove him out of his seat, but his arms disappeared into Hansen’s torso, followed by the rest of him as he lost balance and fell over. He let out a sound that was a cross between a gasp and a sob, and he scrambled to his feet again.

     His parents were in the business of inviting Hansen over to dinner tomorrow night. Like it was no big deal.

     Connor looked between them, feeling a disgusting sense of panic and hopelessness rise in him. “Get _out_ of my _house_ , you fucking… you fucking freak!” he shouted at Hansen. “Shut your fucking mouth! You’re fucking everything up! You’re making up shit about me that never happened and my stupid fucking parents believe you and they’re saying stupid shit and – just get out! _Get out_!”

     Hansen did not get out. He offered to help clean the kitchen.

     Connor gripped his own hair. Everything was spiralling out of control. Hansen had just walked into his family’s life like it was no big deal, lying about knowing Connor, making up stories – Connor was _dead_. He was meant to _stay_ dead. Once he was gone, that was meant to be it. He hated his parents, he hated his sister, he hated everyone. He hated himself so much that he killed himself. And he hated Evan Hansen. All his problems were meant to go away after he killed himself. And it was meant to make everyone else happier, too, because Connor wouldn’t be lurking in the shadows or whatever. Zoe wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His parents didn’t have to worry about him.

     And most importantly, Connor wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath.

     But now, Hansen was fucking that all up. He was… painting some picture of some version of Connor that had never existed. He was making up a new Connor, a nice and kind Connor, and his family was going along with it. They were sad over this version of Connor that Hansen had created. They were sad that they hadn’t gotten to see it. But there _was_ no nice and kind Connor. There had never been a version of Connor that would have taken Evan Hansen out for ice cream and tree-climbing, and taken Hansen to hospital when he’d fallen. He hadn’t existed. And that was the Connor his family was mourning.

     Maybe that’s why Connor had come back as a ghost – he was somehow meant to stop all of this. He had no idea how, but surely that was his ‘unfinished business’, or whatever it was, that was keeping him in this limbo.

     How the fuck was he meant to stop it if he couldn’t even touch anything, let alone speak to anyone or communicate with them?

     Connor let out another gasping sob, and screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to his bedroom. When he opened his eyes again, that’s where he was. Alone.

     He couldn’t lie on his bed, so instead he lay on the floor. “Fuck,” he breathed. “ _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you try to write stuttering at least semi-realistically before u realise that the character who stutters actually speaks a lot and then ur stuck with having to try to write a stutter without it being too disruptive for the reader :)))))  
> idk how i felt about this chapter, it felt a lil all over the place? idk but i hope u liked it!


	6. Kleinman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so I'm back! i meant to upload a new chapter a few days ago, but then i realised i'd accidentally skipped over a Very Important Part of the musical (ie Sincerely, Me) so i had to backtrack and write it. this chapter turned out a lot longer than i thought so the /actual/ 'sincerely me' part will be next chapter. sorry I've been quiet recently, assessments have been kicking my arse (i just spent 5 hours today finishing one and i'm EXHAUSTED) but i squeezed in any time i could to write this chapter. next week is a lot quieter for me, uni-wise, so hopefully i'll have more time to write the next chapter and get it up soon! x
> 
> (plz note that the rating for this fic has gone up to M bc i forgot that I originally wanted to keep it T rated oops)
> 
> (trigger warning for this chapter: gay slurs, mentions of sex under influence of drugs and alcohol, allusions to sexual assault. please let me know if you want me to add or change any warnings.)

     It was hours later – almost midnight, according to Connor’s clock – when Connor, despite himself, was sick of staring at the floor. He knew Hansen would be asleep, but he needed some change of scenery.

     So he appeared by Hansen and – oh, Hansen _wasn’t_ asleep. He was sitting on his bed, still dressed, the lights off but his bedside lamp on, his laptop open. He frowned at the screen as he chewed on his thumbnail.

     Connor checked the time again, glancing at Hansen’s bedside clock. Eleven fifty-three. “Aren’t you usually in bed by now?” Connor asked scathingly, as if he was throwing some kind of insult.

     Hansen made a small sound. “Come on, come on,” he mumbled.

     The laptop was emitting a small tune that Connor recognised as the waiting sound for a Skype call.

     “Okay, first of all,” Connor said, wandering over, through the bed, through the laptop, through Hansen, to see who the guy was calling, “who the fuck even uses Skype anymore. And second of all, who the fuck are you even–”

     And the call was answered.

     “Whoa, Evan,” Jared Kleinman – the ass – said with a laugh. “What the hell are _you_ doing up this late?” He was dressed in his pyjamas, his gaming headphones hanging around his neck. His hair was pushed up into a mess of spikes – he must have been gaming for a while.

     “I n-need help,” Hansen said. “With– with something.”

     “With what? Picking up chicks? I _am_ pretty amazing, Evan, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

     Connor made a sound of disgust and moved away from the screen, to beside Hansen’s bed.

     “No,” Hansen said, huffing. “I…” He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. “I fucked up, J-Jared.”

     “Yeah, what’s new?” Kleinman said. “Look, I was waiting to join a game on Overwatch, and even though I _very nearly_ let the call ring out, I pulled out just to talk to you. So it’d better be good.”

     “It– It’s ab-about the, uh, the Murphys?”

     This seemed to pique Kleinman’s interest. “What do you mean? You did what I told you to, right? You just nodded and said ‘yes’ to whatever? You didn’t make up any stupid-ass stories?”

     Hansen picked at the hem of his shirt. “Well–”

     “Fucking hell, Evan! One job, I gave you _one job_.”

     Connor set his jaw. Of course Jared Kleinman had told Hansen what to do. They were just as bad as each other.

     “I– I kn-know, Jared, I’m s-sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t _mean_ to, I just– I, uh, I saw how– how happy they were– how hap-happy Connor’s m-mom was w-when I said… stuff, and I… I couldn’t…”

     “What?” Kleinman pressed.

     “I couldn’t… It– It was al-already hard enough. On th-them. I had to. I…”

     Kleinman sat back in his chair and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fine, whatever. This is all gonna blow up spectacularly in your face, but whatever. What did you tell them?”

     “I– I j-just told them some– some story about… um, about hanging out, I guess.”

     Kleinman sat forward again and nodded, thinking. “Okay. That’s not too bad. It was just one story. What did you say?”

     And so Hansen gave him a run-down of that oh-so-magical day out, complete with way too many awkward fumbling and stuttering to be bearable. Connor almost went back to his own bedroom.

     When Hansen finished, Kleinman just stared at him, his elbows resting on his desk and his mouth pressed against his folded fingers.

     He stared silently, long enough that Hansen started to fidget nervously. Well, fidget even more than he already did.

     “His parents think you were gay lovers – you know that, right?”

     “What the fuck?” Connor cried, at the same time that Hansen squeaked, “What?”

     “Come on, seriously? The long drive, the little quaint ice cream place, the declarations of love while cloud-gazing in a field of soft grass–”

     “I n-never said it w-was s-soft.”

     “–climbing trees together, him _rushing_ to your aid when you fell out of a tree.”

     Hansen cringed. “And th-there was the, um, the… secret emails.”

     Kleinman let out a barking laugh. “I’m sorry, the _what_?”

     “I m-might have, um, I might’ve told– told them that we, uh, u-used to t-talk v-via a secret email account?”

     Kleinman nodded to himself. “Of _course_ , those secret email accounts! For sending pictures of your penises to each other!”

     Connor wished he was alive again so he could punch Kleinman in his fat mouth. Hansen flushed. “ _Jared_.”

     “Hey, I’m not one to judge. Maybe you have a thing for that emo white boy vibe, and that’s a-okay. No kinkshaming here.”

     “Jared, we d-didn’t ev-even know each other– other. Can you just… Can y-you help me, p-please?”

     “With what, the secret emails?”

     “Y-Yes.”

     Kleinman sighed in thought. “Well, it’s pretty easy to backdate emails and everything. I can set it up for you right now if you want.”

     “Yes please.”

     “All righty.” Kleinman started tapping away at his keyboard. “What do you want them to be called? ‘Totally-real-emails at gmail dot com’? ‘I’m-super-gay at dick picks dot com’?”

     Connor probably would have laughed if Kleinman hadn’t been referring to his new, fake email account.

     Hansen didn’t look like he wanted to laugh, though. “I’m not… Can– Can you s-stop with the… the…”

     Kleinman rolled his eyes. “The gay jokes. Right. Sorry, Mr Politically Correct.”

     Hansen scowled. “I j-just don’t– I don’t think you, um, you should b-be allowed to– to say them i-if you’re str-straight, that’s, um, that’s all. You know– You know that.”

     Kleinman snorted, and he glanced away, his face going red. “Yeah, whatever.”

     Connor paused, leaning in a little closer towards the screen. Was Kleinman… embarrassed?

     Kleinman was _never_ embarrassed. About anything. So why was he embarrassed about being called out for making gay jokes, like he did all the time? Why was he embarrassed about Hansen saying that gay jokes should only be made by gay people?

 _You know that_ , Hansen had said.

     Connor felt a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Surely not. Surely it was too good to be true.

     Hansen blinked, cocking his head a little, like a dog. “What?”

     “I said, _what do you want the email to be_?” Jared said, sounding a little peeved.

     “Are you… _gay_?” Connor said incredulously, staring intently at Kleinman through the screen. “Are you seriously a stereotypical closeted bully who calls people fags to hide your own insecurity about your own sexuality?”

     “Just– I dunno,” Hansen continued, oblivious to Connor’s discovery. “L-Look up a, uh, a… One– one of th-those, um, name– username g-gen-generators.”

     “You do it,” Kleinman shot back. “This is your dumb idea.”

     Hansen sighed and minimised Skype. Connor watched him typing into the search bar on Google. He wanted to say something, to take the opportunity to bitch and throw insults. He could have called Kleinman anything he’d wanted. Thrown all those insults back in his face that he’d slapped Connor with over the years. _Fag. Closet case. Cocksucker. Violet Cachki_ , whoever the fuck that was. But he couldn’t bring himself to.

     Something wasn’t sitting right with him.

 

     Connor had always known right from the get-go that he was a little different. In a lot of different ways. Sure, when he was young he’d played with all the other little boys and laughed with little girls, but then when everyone had started to grow up, Connor always felt off when his friends had talked about girls. He just… couldn’t relate. But he’d pretended everything had been fine, and nodded along like he understood, and just assumed he was a late bloomer.

     His first kiss had been Summer Chan, at Lachlan Sanchez’ thirteenth birthday party.

     He hadn’t liked it. At all.

     It was pretty soon after that that people started thinking he was a little _too_ weird to hang out with, and everything had just spiralled from there. First came the depression, then the drugs, then the first suicide attempt, then more drugs, more drugs, more depression, anxiety, blah blah blah.

     He knew he’d kissed dudes before. Whenever he’d gotten so hammered out of his mind, he’d kissed anyone. He didn’t remember most of it. And he’d slept with people, too, although he didn’t remember anything more than flashes of any of those nights. More than once – five times, if he’d counted correctly – he’d waken up in the bed of a stranger. Once it had been a girl. Four times it had been a guy.

     Once – just once – one of the guys had woken him up with a blowjob. Connor had woken up and started to panic, about to shove the guy off, but then he’d done something with his tongue, and Connor had decided he could freak out about it later.

     The guy had _himself_ freaked out quite dramatically when Connor had told him he was seventeen.

     “What?” Connor had said indignantly. “How old are you, eighteen?”

     "I’m twenty-five,” the guy had exclaimed. “Fuck hell, _seventeen_? I could be fucking arrested. You have to go. Right now. How wasted was I last night?”

     That had been about four months ago; the extent of the questioning of his sexuality. Any other time he just shoved it down as far in the back of his mind as he could shove it.

 

     But all of that had been when he was alive. He didn’t have to worry about it now, he supposed.

     “‘Thundering at gmail dot com’,” Kleinman was saying with a laugh.

     “ _No_ ,” Hansen whined. “C-c’mon, Jared, I’m…” He cut himself off with a yawn. “It’s– it’s past m-m-midnight.”

     “Okay, fine, I’ll try a different website,” Kleinman said with a sigh. A few more clicks, and he said, “All right, this one’s a little more tailored. ‘What’s your name?” He started typing. “Evan… ‘What do you like?’ Trees.”

     Hansen smiled a small smile.

     Connor found himself staring. He looked away.

     Kleinman let out another laugh. “‘HempEvan’! They took ‘Evan’ and ‘trees’ and came up with ‘HempEvan’. That is _iconic_. Put that shit on my fucking _gravestone_.”

     Hansen sighed and let his head drop into his hands.

     “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, jeez,” Kleinman said. “Okay, what about… ‘arrestedfor _tree_ son’?”

     Hansen lifted his head, frowning. The light from the laptop cast an ugly pale shadow on his face, accentuating the shadows underneath his eyes. “Is th-that a sugg-suggestion?”

     “No, I made it up,” Kleinman said smugly. “Like it?”

     Hansen nodded. “Y-Yeah, use that.”

     “And what about the man of the hour?”

     “Just… um, I– I dunno. Can y-you put– put it in the, uh–”

     “Yup,” Kleinman said, already typing. “What’s my name? Connor. No – Murphy. What do I like? Uh… drugs.”

     “Jared.”

     “Well, it’s true!”

     Connor pursed his lips.

     Kleinman clicked, and snorted. “‘DrugsMama’. ‘HeheDrugs’. These are both disgusting and magnificent at the same time.” He yawned and rubbed at his eye underneath his glasses. “I’ll just use his last name and a bunch of numbers.”

     “Y-Yeah.”

     Kleinman shifted in his seat, sitting up a little. He took off his gaming headphones, setting them aside. “Okay, now to set up the emails.”

     “Th-thank you f-for this– this, Jared.”

     “Gotta keep my parents paying for that car insurance, bro.”

     Connor frowned in confusion. Were Kleinman’s parens literally paying their son to be friends with Hansen? And Hansen knew about it? And he was _okay_ with that?

     Jesus. The kid was even sadder than he’d thought.

     The next few minutes passed in silence. Hansen almost fell asleep where he was sitting. But soon enough, Kleinman said, “Done. Now you just gotta write the emails.”

     Hansen let out a pathetic whine mixed with a sigh, covering his face with his hands again.

     Connor watched Kleinman’s face in the monitor, how it changed slightly. He was taking pity on Hansen.

     He didn't fucking deserve anyone's pity.

     “I can help you,” he offered.

     Hansen looked up. “R-Really?”

     Kleinman nodded, shrugging. “Sure. If you want. You’re probably gonna make Connor sound too nice, anyway, so.”

     Hansen smiled. “Thank you.”

     “But not tonight. You’re about to drop dead. No offence to Dead Boy.” Kleinman thudded his chest with his fist, kissed his hand, and made a peace sign towards the sky.

     Connor rolled his eyes. “Fuck you,” he said.

     “I’m go-going over to th-the Murphys ag-again tomorrow for… um, for dinner, though.”

     “Tomorrow afternoon, then. Before dinner. It’ll take five minutes.”

     Hansen thought, and then nodded. “’Kay.”

     “Cool. See you tomorrow.”

     “Bye.”

     Kleinman ended the call, and Hansen closed his laptop. He sat on his bed for a minute, probably debating whether he could be bothered to get up and get ready for bed, but just kicked his shoes off, set his laptop on the ground, and slid under the covers before switching out the lamp on his bedside table.

     Connor just stood in the darkness. Part of him wished he could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i went onto two different email name generator websites, and yes, the suggested names that jared mentioned were real suggestions. and if you don't know who violet cachki is, look up a photo of her (not in drag) and u will understand why jared called connor that. in a less angsty fic jared would call connor that affectionately and one day connor would get all drag queen'ed up and he'd own the fact that he looks like he could be violet cachki's brother or cousin or smth, but unfortunately this is not that fic.  
> idk guys i'm really tired


	7. Reinvention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was tricky to write, just bc 'sincerely, me' has a lot of talking in it/singing with speech quality already, and that's tricky to rewrite without directly quoting the song. i hope i managed!  
> i'm pretty keen to write the next chapter or two. we'll get to see a bit more of zoe. i've been dying to write it since i started this entire fic.  
> enjoy! xx

     The night passed for Connor in about forty minutes. He’d figured out that, for him to skip forward in time, he couldn’t be distracted. He had to be still, he had to not think about it if he could help it, and there couldn’t be any noises or movement that would catch his attention.

     He couldn’t ever really skip forward in time when he was in Hansen’s room. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the fact that he was in someone else’s room while they were sleeping – that was super weird. Like those shitty vampire books that Zoe used to read, but pretend she didn’t. Wasn’t there some freaky guy who used to watch the girl sleep, or something? And then they fell in love, because apparently being a stalker got you mad brownie points with the ladies?

     Whatever. The point was, it wasn’t exactly comfortable, being in the same room as someone who was asleep, just standing there. Especially since Hansen didn’t _move_ when he was asleep. He slept, well, like the dead. So when he _did_ move, it always took Connor by surprise, and time would slow down to continue at regular speed.

     So Connor always went to his own room at night. He usually sat on the floor, curling his knees up to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees, closing his eyes, pretending he could sleep.

     The sound of someone in his house waking up and walking around was like his alarm clock. Which meant it was fucking annoying whenever Zoe got up in the middle of the night to pee. But again, whatever.

 

     “Right,” said Jared Kleinman, stretching his hands out like he was cracking his knuckles, but there wasn’t any sound. “Where do you want to start?”

     Hansen shrugged helplessly. “I d-dunno.”

     It was the afternoon, and Kleinman had driven both him and Hansen back to Hansen’s house to work on writing those emails. The whole idea of it was completely insane, and Connor hated it.

     He didn’t go back to his room, though. He wanted to see what the fuck they would write about him.

     Kleinman thought for a moment, massaging his forehead with his fingers, his laptop whirring softly in his lap. “Uh…”

     Hansen reached for a chocolate chip cookie in the half-empty packet that was resting on his bed, peering over Kleinman’s shoulder. “Y-you should, um, should be– be Connor.”

     Kleinman glanced over his shoulder at him. “Huh?”

     “And I– I’ll be m-m-me. You, well, um, you could prob– probably write Connor better th-than, um, than me.”

     “What makes you say that?” Kleinman said, screwing up his face in confusion.

     Hansen shrugged again. “I don’t… coz you’re… um…”

     Kleinman quirked an eyebrow. “Coz I’m an asshole, like he is– was?”

     Hansen said nothing, but he smiled sheepishly.

     Connor and Kleinman snorted at the same time. Connor scowled, like that was Kleinman’s fault.

     “Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting you to come out with something like that,” Kleinman said, and he sounded a little impressed. “All right, I’ll be Connor. Just guide me in the right direction, o wise one. The Gandalf to my Frodo. Or my Bilbo. If you’re going off the movies, then Frodo, but if the books, then Bilbo.”

     “A-Are you d-done?” Hansen said, giving Kleinman a look.

     Connor let out a burst of laughter at that, and then hurriedly checked himself.

     Kleinman looked a little surprised, but then chuckled. “A man on a mission; duly noted. Let’s go.”

     Hansen sat back, leaning on his good arm, and sighed in thought as Kleinman reached for a cookie. “Just… I…” Hansen clicked his tongue and sat forward again. “Just st-start writing. Any-anything.”

     Kleinman nodded, chewing contemplatively on the cookie. “Aight,” he said, putting the rest of the cookie in his mouth – which would be quite a feat for a normal person, but Kleinman had such a huge fucking mouth that he did so with ease – and dusting off his hands on his jeans.

     Then he started typing.

     “‘Dear Evan’,” he said aloud.

     “Hansen,” Hansen added.

     Kleinman looked at him like he was an idiot. “You’re trying to say this guy was your friend and you addressed each other with your whole names?”

     “Th-That’s what I, um, had,” Hansen explained. “Written– written on the, um, the– the l-letter th-that–”

     Kleinman nodded. “The sex letter,” he said in understanding.

     Hansen huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother correcting him.

     “‘Dear Evan _Hansen_ ’,” Kleinman amended. He paused, and kept going. “‘It’s been a while, bro–’”

     “ _Bro_?”

     “You don’t think he ever said ‘bro’?”

     Hansen breathed out sharply through his nose, in a kind of laugh. “N-no.”

     Kleinman backspaced, and proceeded. “‘It’s been a while.’ Uh… ‘Been pretty crazy lately, so I got a lot to catch you up on, which is good, I guess. But it sucks that we haven’t really talked a lot the past–’ um, ‘–few weeks. But I still think of you, every night–’”

     Hansen’s growing frown mirrored Connor’s.

     “‘I think of your voice, and your smile, and your hands, letting the memory of you float through my mind as I jerk myself off–’”

     “ _Jared_!” Hansen cried in horror, and Connor recoiled, letting out a noise of disgust.

     “What the fuck, Kleinman?” Connor said. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

     Kleinman blinked mock-innocently at Hansen, doing a poor job of trying to smother his laughter. “What? I’m just trying to be honest. Put myself in Connor’s shoes.”

     Hansen looked like he was about to hit the guy, but he didn’t. Connor wished he had. “Do y-you realise how– how _serious_ th-this is? This… this is the – the only p-proof I have of – of m-my friendsh– friendship with Con-Connor. They have t-to be perf-perfect.” Hansen sighed, and reached for the laptop. “Look, i-if you’re not g-gonna take th-this seriously, then _I’ll_ do it.”

     Kleinman rolled his eyes, but relinquished the laptop.

     Hansen frowned, pointedly slammed the backspace key a hundred times, and started typing.

     After a few seconds, Kleinman peered over, and Connor, against his better judgement, went through the bed to stand behind them both, reading Hansen’s words.

_But it sucks that we haven’t really talked a lot the past few weeks. I have to be honest, without having you there to talk to, life’s been pretty hard_.

     “Hard?” Kleinman said with a laugh and a grin. “You know what else is _pretty hard_?”

     Hansen pursed his lips, and tried again.

_–life’s been pretty bad._

     “ _Bad_? Are you joking?”

     Hansen’s jaw clenched.

_–pretty rough_.

     Kleinman waggled his eyebrows. “Kinky.”

     “I’m not changing it again,” Hansen said through gritted teeth.

_I miss talking to you about life and–_ The cursor blinked on the screen for a few seconds. _–stuff_.

     “Stuff,” Kleinman read. “That really narrows it down, actually. Super specific. I love talking about _stuff_ with my BFF.”

     “Shut up, Jared,” Hansen growled.

_It’s not that everything’s all bad. I like my parents–_

     “‘I _like_ my parents’? Who the fuck says that they _like_ their parents?”

_I love my parents, and Zoe. But everyone is just fighting all the time, all day, every day. I want to sit down and just talk it all out, but I don’t know how to. And I just feel like they wouldn’t listen to me. I wouldn’t even know where to begin with it all._

_I don’t know. Maybe if I stop smoking drugs then it’ll start to get better._

     Connor couldn’t help but laugh at that. _Smoking drugs_. Better watch out – Hansen was clearly a loose fucking unit.

     Kleinman raised his eyebrow again, peering at Hansen over his glasses. “Smoking,” he said slowly, “drugs.”

     Hansen let out a sound of frustration, thrusting the laptop back into Kleinman’s hands. “Fine, f-fix it.”

     Kleinman thought for a second, and took over.

_Maybe if I stop smoking crack then it’ll–_

     “Crack?” Hansen exclaimed. “N-no! No way!”

     Connor scoffed. “You really think I’ve done _crack_ , Kleinman?” he said. “No fucking thanks.”

_Maybe if I stop smoking pot then it’ll start too get better. Thats what u said, right? Stop with the drugs start being nicer. Maybe I should take ur advice. You always know what to do._

_because I do want to get better Evan. It’s just really fucking hard_.

     “No sw-swearing,” Hansen said.

     “No swearing?” Kleinman said. “You think Connor didn’t fucking swear?”

     Hansen looked uneasy. “His p-parents are g-gonna r-read this.”

     “He smoked pot and got drunk at least three times a week, Evan,” Hansen said. “You think his parents are gonna get all weird about a little swear word in a private email?”

     Hansen pouted. “You h-have, like, t-ten typos,” he muttered, and let Kleinman continue.

_But I’m trying cause I really want to. I’m gunna make my Mom and Dad proud, just u wait and see. I_ can _turn this around. But I’m gunna need ur help, too. Just to remind me too keep trying._

_Cant wait to hear from u soon._

_Connor_.

     Hansen wordlessly reached for the laptop, backspaced Connor’s name, and replaced it with, _Sincerely, Me_.

     Connor stared at the completed email. “You’re shitting me, right?” he said to the two fuckheads in front of him. “None of that sounds anything like me.”

     “Happy with that?” Kleinman said, looking to Hansen for confirmation.

     Hansen nodded. “Y-yeah. Ap-apart from the ty-typos.”

     “Your first mistake was thinking I’d actually communicate via fucking email, for starters,” Connor added.

     “Great,” Kleinman said. “Just gotta make it look like it was a sent a while ago, and then we’re done.”

     “No,” Hansen said. “I can’t j-just give them one email. Th-that doesn’t make, like, um, it doesn’t make any– any sense.”

     “But they only need proof that you were friends,” Kleinman said. He gestured to his laptop screen. “This is it.”

     “B-But I w-want to show– show that I w-was a _good_ friend.” He grabbed the laptop and sat back, taking another cookie. “I’ll j-just write a qu-quick response.”

     Kleinman laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh my God,” he muttered.

     Hansen started typing.

_Dear Connor Murphy. I’ve missed talking to you, too. I’m here for you whenever you need. I know you can do it. Just try to stop taking drugs, and maybe go for a nice walk outside sometimes, to take your mind off it._

     Kleinman gave Hansen a look. “Uh, no.”

     Hansen ignored him.

_I found some really cool pictures of trees that I thought you’d like – they’re attached. It’s so cool that you’re interested in trees, just like me! I can’t wait to show you all the awesome ones around school and stuff_.

     “No,” Kleinman said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. No fucking way could Connor fucking Murphy be interested in _trees_.”

     “We h-have to have _one_ th-thing in com– common,” Hansen protested.

     “And you think that similar interest would be trees?”

     “Marijuana’s a plant,” Hansen tried to justify in a small voice. Connor laughed. And then he stopped himself.

     Kleinman threw his hands in the air in defeat. “Whatever, dude. It’s your life.”

     Hansen returned to the email.

_But I’m proud of you, Connor. This is a huge step you’re taking, but it’s such an important one. I’ll be there with you every step of the way, and I know your family will be, too. I can already tell how determined you are – that’s a great start._

_See you at school!_

_Sincerely, Me._

     Kleinman grabbed a cookie from the bag and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. “Great,” he said, the word barely understandable. “Done.”

     Hansen made a dumb kissy face, frowning – was that his _thinking_ face? – and went back to the email, adding in a line just before the _See you at school!_ bit.

_I’m so glad you’re my friend._

     Kleinman munched on the cookie. “Wow. Friendzoning him _hard_.”

     “That’s – That’s why I p-put it in there,” Hansen said. “S-So Connor’s par-parents don’t, um, think th-that we were gay, or something.”

     Kleinman shrugged, looking a little fed up. “Yeah, okay, you’re super not gay, I get it. You can't stand the thought of Zoe thinking you aren't one hundred percent heterosexual.”

     Hansen glanced at him, confused by how defensive he sounded, but let it slide.

     “It’s because he’s _super_ gay,” Connor stage-whispered.

     Hansen passed Kleinman the laptop. “D-Do the thing,” he said. “Then I’ll– I’ll p-print, um, them out.”

     “And that’ll be it?” Kleinman said hopefully. “All over, red rover?”

     “Hope– Hopefully,” Hansen said. “I m-mean, they wa-wanted emails, and– and I’m giv– giving them emails, so.”

     “Good.” Kleinman opened up the email accounts and started working.

     Connor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “This is fucking stupid,” he muttered. He walked through the boys, the laptop, the bed, and sat down near Hansen’s bedroom door. He wished he could lean against the wall, but he knew that that wouldn’t work. At least he was finally learning something.

     “I can’t believe how casual you two are about this,” Connor said. “You’re literally pretending to be a dead guy just so you can avoid getting awkwardly caught out in some dumb fucking lie. Like, that is next-level stupid.” He shook his head, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m tired,” he confessed. “I’m really damn fucking tired of both of you.”


	8. Band of Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh man it's been a hot minute. sorry guys. my memory's been awful the past couple of weeks so i keep forgetting about all this stuff i need to do (including writing this), and it's been catching up on me. and i've been feeling pretty low on Creative Juice too. but anyway! here's a suuuuper-long chapter bc i couldn't figure out where would be a good place to split it into two chapters. hopefully this makes up for my absence (or maybe it's annoying having a 5000+ word chapter - in that case, sorry again).  
> something that i found odd when i first watched the musical was that there was no mention of a funeral or anything. no kind of ceremony at all, until the school memorial. i've only been to one funeral in my life (for someone I didn't even know - it's a long story) and it was super Catholic, so sorry if I've gotten anything wrong. it's 1:30am currently, but I really wanted to post this. I already have the second chapter written, so it'll be up in a day or two. hope u enjoy!

     A couple of days passed. Or who the fuck knew? Maybe it was weeks. Connor couldn’t fucking tell what anything was anymore.

     He looked at his clock. No. It had only been three days. Three days since Hansen had first come to his house for dinner and sat in his seat. Three days he’d spent alternating between lying on his bedroom floor, and following Hansen around like he was the cameraman of the Evan Hansen Reality TV Show. And he’d come to learn that Hansen really did _nothing_. He didn’t speak to anyone –save for that one time he’d bumped into someone and apologised about fifty thousand times. And Kleinman, although that was mostly about the fake emails that they were still working on.

     He spoke to his mom, too – Connor was yet to see Hansen’s dad – although that was barely even ever a conversation. Connor could relate to that on some level, although Hansen seemed more… uneasy around his mom. Like the idea of holding a proper conversation with her was scary and exhausting, instead of just annoying.

     Those were two words Connor would use to describe Hansen: scared, and exhausted. And weird. He was a weird fucking guy.

     The second time he’d come over to Connor’s house for dinner, printed emails in hand, Connor hadn’t hung around. He hadn’t wanted to hear anything more about the fake Connor. But he hadn’t been able to hide from the sounds of his family apparently having a great old time with the asshole sitting in his seat at the table.

     Hansen was even invited to Connor’s funeral.

     Which was today.

     Connor assumed he was, anyway. He hadn’t exactly been able to eavesdrop on his parents’ murmured conversations downstairs.

     A part of him – a very, very small part – was glad that Hansen would be invited, only because that meant that Connor could tag along, too.

     But did he really _want_ to go to his own funeral?

     He couldn’t really remember the last funeral he’d been to. It had been for his great aunt or something, and he’d only been about nine. He could recall the musty smell of the church, the itchiness of his suit that had been bought especially for that day, and that he’d wanted nothing more than to go home to play to new video game he’d gotten for his birthday the week before.

     Connor couldn’t help but who’d be at his funeral – which felt gross to think, _his funeral_. His extended family wasn’t particularly large or particularly close. His dad had an older brother who lived in Australia, and a younger brother who spent his days doing charity work for kids in Africa or something. His mom didn’t have any siblings. Connor had no cousins. He had grandparents, kind of. His dad hadn’t spoken to his father in God knew how long, but that was really the only hiccup in that department. He saw his mom’s parents every Christmas, Thanksgiving and birthday, and he saw his dad’s mother maybe once every two years. She didn’t like having to leave her two dogs back home in Boston, but the dogs were scared of flying.

     Connor let out a rush of air, and screwed up his nose a little as he remembered that he no longer needed to breathe. He didn’t really think about it, but every so often he noticed that his chest wasn’t rising and falling. It was just… still. He _could_ still breathe, if he wanted to, but it was no longer something that just happened without thinking.

     “Zoe!” his mother called from downstairs. “We’re walking out the door, sweetheart, come on.”

     “Coming,” Zoe replied, without the usual edge of irritation. She sounded flatter. Like a zombie that had been given a shot to turn back into a human, but it hadn’t quite worked.

     A few seconds later, he heard the front door open, and then another, “Zoe, hurry up!”

     There was a muted thud from Zoe’s room – she’d probably thrown her hairbrush onto her floor, or maybe a stray shoe – and then heavy footsteps as Zoe shoved her door open and stomped downstairs. Connor could hear that she was wearing heels. “I’m _coming_.”

     Connor could hear their mother saying something, and then the front door closed, and he was enveloped by silence.

     It didn’t take much thought now to appear at Hansen’s side.

     He was understandably shocked to find Hansen shirtless, and he popped back into his bedroom before he could even blink.

     He shook himself out. “Ugh,” he said, shuddering.

     He waited a good minute or so before appearing back in Hansen’s room, hoping he wouldn’t find him, like, naked, or something.

     Hansen was very much clothed, thank God. He’d moved to the bathroom, where he was attempting to tie his tie in the mirror, his shirt and suit jacket squeezed over his cast. His hands were trembling, and he clearly had no idea what he was doing.

     And he was talking to himself. Again. “Stop shaking, Evan,” he muttered, frowning at his reflection. “Come on. Just tie the tie. Just tie it. It’s not hard.”

     Connor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “ _Just tie the tie_ ,” he mimicked. “Fucking weirdo.”

     After another few minutes, Hansen gave up, seriously agitated. He dropped the tie in the sink and covered his face with his hands, taking huge breaths in and out in some attempt to calm himself. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Not now. Don’t.”

     Connor frowned. “Don’t?” he repeated. Was Hansen talking to him?

     Hansen lowered his hands, gripping the edge of the sink, his eyes closed. He’d gone ashen white, and his breathing had gone shallow.

     “Jesus,” Connor said, taking a step back. “What the fuck?”

     Hansen slowly lowered himself to the ground and put his head between his legs. He whimpered.

     Connor grimaced. “You’re not about to throw up, are you?”

     Hansen stayed like that, almost panting, his hands shaking.

     Connor just stood there, unsure.

     It hit him, then, what was happening. A panic attack. That must have been it.

     Connor had had panic attacks before, but they were never like this. His involved more swearing and, well, panicking. Pulling at his hair, pacing, hitting things. Scrambling for his lighter and some weed. And yes, sometimes there had been tears.

     But Hansen had just turned into a stone on the bathroom floor.

     “Yeah, that’ll happen to you if you tell a massive lie to a bunch of people,” Connor said, but it didn’t come out as harsh as he’d meant it to.

     He still hated Hansen. But he hated panic attacks, too. Even if someone was a pile of shit, panic attacks still sucked balls.

     Connor went over and bobbed down near Hansen. What had he meant when he’d said, ‘Don’t. Not now’?

     “Yo,” he said, loudly and clearly. “Hansen. Can you hear me?”

     Hansen didn’t react.

     “Hansen. Hello.”

     Connor could hear Hansen’s breathing from this close. Short, sharp breaths.

     Connor paused, and shifted. “Hey,” he said, a little more softly.

     Hansen jerked, his head snapping up. He stared straight ahead, still breathing quickly, still pale.

     Connor would have been lying if he said he didn’t feel a rush go through him. He fell sideways, leaning over into Hansen’s line of sight. “Hansen,” he exclaimed. He waved. “Yo. Hey.”

     But Hansen’s attention had already been lost, his eyes glazing over again, and he screwed up his face. He let out a sob that was more of a whimper, and put his head down again.

     Connor sighed in frustration. Surely that had been something, right? He’d gotten through to Hansen, for just a moment.

     He didn’t know what to do. So he crossed his legs and just sat there, absentmindedly sweeping his hand through Hansen’s shoe, watching his fingers disappear and reappear, while Hansen struggled to breathe.

     Neither of them were alone, yet somehow, they were both more alone than they’d ever been.

     Eventually – Connor didn’t know how much time had passed; he just knew that he hadn’t time-jumped – Hansen slowly uncurled from his ball, and, letting out pathetic little noises as he did so, got to his feet. His hands still shook, but it looked to be more like an aftereffect of all the adrenaline.

     Connor stood and looked at Hansen in the mirror – noting, eerily, that he didn’t have a reflection himself anymore.

     The guy looked like he’d gone through hell. But nevertheless, Hansen picked up his tie, and, after more fumbling and many calming deep breaths, managed to tie it around his neck.

     Connor said nothing the whole time. He just watched Hansen, his face blank, save for a tiny crease in between his eyebrows.

     Hansen smoothed down his suit jacket and took a drink of water.

     His phone started buzzing, and he froze.

     He picked up the phone.

 _Zoe_ , Connor read on the screen.

     Hansen held the phone in his hand like it was a bomb, his hands starting to shake again. His thumb moved to answer it, but stopped, hovering over the green button.

     And there he stood, like a statue, until it rung out.

     When the ringing stopped, Hansen unfroze, and hurried around, gathering his wallet and keys, and rushing out the front door.

     Connor followed. His family was outside in the car, and Hansen – after triple-checking that the front door was locked – power-walked towards it, getting in.

     “Fuck,” Connor said, upon realising that, while he couldn’t be anywhere apart from his bedroom without Hansen, he also was yet to figure out how to manifest his body enough to be able to sit on things. Or sit _in_ things.

     He had no choice but to watch as the car door closed, and the car sped away.

     After a second or two, Connor appeared in his bedroom.

     With a huff of irritation, he set out to try to sit on his bed. Surely there was some kind of knack he hadn’t figured out yet.

     After maybe five attempts, he gave up. “Whatever,” he muttered.

     He tried to appear by Hansen’s side, but he only appeared in the car, and he screamed in fright as the car ripped through him, and he was left on the street for a split second before appearing in his room again.

     Feeling shaken, he sat down. “Never fucking trying _that_ again,” he said to himself.

     He exhaled in a huff, and closed his eyes, willing himself forward in time.

     After a minute or two, he cracked open one eye, peering at his clock.

     Exactly thirty seconds had passed.

     Connor groaned in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s the point of these stupid fucking powers if I can’t _use_ them? Like, if I can’t decide when to use them? Instead I just have to leave it up to the damn Universe.”

     He groaned again, this time louder and angrier, and he lay down heavily.

     He thought for a moment, and then reached into his back pocket, pulling out Hansen’s letter – his ‘sex letter’, as Kleinman had called it. Despite himself, Connor cracked an amused smile at that.

     He let his eyes drift over the words.

 _Dear Evan Hansen…_ blah blah blah… _all my hope is pinned on Zoe_ … la dee dah… _I wish everything was different_ … _disappear tomorrow… your most best, and dearest friend, Me_.

     Connor scrunched up the note and threw straight up, into the air. It came back down, bounced on his stomach once, and then vanished before it could hit the ground.

     Connor pulled the note out of his pocket again.

     “‘Dear Evan Hansen’,” he read aloud, in a whiny voice. “‘Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all.’” He screwed up the note again, and, like before, threw it up in the air. He caught it in his hands, and then, a moment later, pressed his hands together, with nothing in between them.

     He got the note out again. “‘This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be?’”

     He continued. After each sentence he scrunched the note into a ball, threw it into the air, and, when it vanished, pulled it out of his pocket once again.

     When he finished, chucking the ball of paper as hard as he could at the ceiling as he ground out, “ _Me_ ,” he let his arms fall to his sides.

     “Me,” he said again, after a moment, no longer putting on a voice. “Your most best, and dearest friend. Me.”

     He sighed, and sat up, taking out the note once more, unfolding it, and staring at it. He ran his fingers over the letters, for some strange reason expecting to feel indents, but the letter had been typed, of course, not handwritten.

     He wondered what Hansen’s handwriting looked like. How would it change the letter, if he’d handwritten it? Would it seem less… fake? Less clinical, maybe?

     Whatever. It didn’t matter, anyway.

     Connor looked at the clock. Forty minutes had gone.

     “Oh, _now_ the fast-forwarding shit works,” he said, and stood up, letting the letter sit on the ground.

     He appeared at Hansen’s side. He was in the bathroom, leaning against the wall, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Oh, come on,” Connor said. “I came to see my own funeral, not hang out in the bathroom.”

     Almost as if on cue, Hansen let his hand drop, sighed, trying to calm himself, and pushed himself off the wall. He hesitated, and then left the bathroom.

     The guests had just about finished filing into the church.

     Connor screwed up his nose at the church. No one in his family was religious – why would they have his funeral in a church?

     Hansen stopped in his tracks when he entered the church, and Connor followed his gaze.

     The coffin, at the end of the aisle.

     Connor felt a shudder go through him. That was _his body_ in there. _He_ was in that coffin.

     Thank God it was closed. Connor didn’t think he’d be able to manage it if it was open.

     “Evan!”

     Hansen blinked, and looked to Connor’s mom, who was heading over. She’d obviously been crying, and there was a soggy tissue in her hand. She used it to dab under her eyes, and she gave Hansen a watery smile. “We have a seat saved for you up the front.”

     Any blood that had been left in Hansen’s cheeks slithered out, and his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, n-no, I–”

     “It’s okay, you don’t have to be nervous. It’s what he…” Connor’s mom paused, pursing her lips, trying to stop herself from crying again.

     Connor rolled his eyes.

     Connor’s mom composed herself, and continued. “You belong up the front. It’s what Connor would have wanted.”

     “I want him to fuck off,” Connor said with a raised eyebrow. “And I don’t want my funeral in a damn church. And I want you to stop crying, because I _know_ you don’t mean it.”

     Hansen, Connor supposed, couldn’t come up with a reason to say no, so he nodded wordlessly, and Connor’s mom took his arm, leading him up to the front pew. He sat down beside Zoe, and some of the colour in his cheeks came back.

     “Oh, cute,” Connor drawled. “What a place to pick up girls. At a fucking funeral. Go on, Hansen! Kiss her! Why don’t you two just fucking make out on my fucking coffin while you’re at it?”

     Zoe barely even glanced at Hansen. She just gripped the programme in her hands, boring her gaze into the floor in front of her. Every so often she sniffed or wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

     Connor stood back – as far as he could, which wasn’t very far, thanks to his invisible rope tied to Hansen – and surveyed the crowd. There were faces he knew, and plenty he didn’t. Maybe distant relatives, or his mom and dad’s friends, or something. He saw a couple of Zoe’s friends.

     There couldn’t have been more than about forty, fifty people there. Was that a lot of people for a funeral? Connor had no idea.

 

     Soon after, the funeral started. Connor’s father got up, stood behind the podium, and waited for the sullen murmuring to dissipate. “Thank you all for coming,” Connor’s father said. It didn’t look like he’d been crying. He barely even looked sad. Just… serious. Solemn, maybe.

     Connor rolled his eyes from where he stood in the centre of the aisle, up the front, right near the foot of the stairs.

     Connor’s father took a deep breath, swallowed, and continued, his eyes scanning the page in front of him. “I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but just for peace of mind: I’m Larry Murphy, Connor’s father.” He cleared his throat. “My son, Connor, was a complicated young man.”

     Connor almost laughed out loud. A _complicated young man_? It was the ugliest thing Connor had ever been called.

     “If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t know how he spent most of his days. For the last two years, I didn’t see him much. He was always either out somewhere, or hiding in his room – which is pretty typical of most teenage boys, I’m sure.”

     There was a brief hum of polite laughter.

     Connor’s father shifted. “And I was looking forward to when Connor grew out of that phase in his life; when he became an adult, and we could spend more time together, and I could get to know my son for who he was, instead of just seeing glimpses of him every now and again when he decided to come to the kitchen to get something to eat.”

     Connor’s father paused, and then continued. “But that is something that Connor and I will now never get to experience. All I have – all any of us – now have are memories. We will all treasure these memories for the rest of our lives, as we grow, as we learn, as we change, as Connor no longer can.”

     Connor’s mother let out a small whimper, and Zoe rubbed her back.

     Connor’s father took another breath, staring at his page for a few seconds, and then lifted his head. “Today is a time for us to share these treasured memories with one another. Thank you to those who have volunteered to speak, and, again, thank you to everyone for joining us on this very difficult day. We cannot express how grateful we are for your support.” He sighed, his speech clearly done, and he looked to his wife. “First speaking today will be my wife, Cynthia. Thank you.”

     He stepped down, and waited as Connor’s mother made her way up. She took her husband’s hand when she stepped up to the podium, and Connor’s father rubbed her arm soothingly, his gaze distant but aimed at the ground somewhere in front of him.

     Connor’s mother took a steadying breath, which trembled, and she put on her glasses. “Good morning,” she said, reading her speech carefully. “Thank you for being here with us today.” She swallowed. “Um…” She cleared her throat, and Connor’s father squeezed her hand, but she nodded to him. “Um, as I’m sure most of you know, either from me talking to you about it, or through the grapevine, Connor’s relationship with us, with his family, was complicated.”

     Connor frowned a little. Clearly his parents were using the same dictionary when writing their speeches. Or they just weren’t very creative or original people.

     Probably the second one.

     “But that doesn’t mean that we loved Connor any less. We all loved him, so, so much, and everyone’s being here today is proof of that.”

     Connor glanced around the room, at the faces that stared at his mother – some with dry eyes, some with wet. He didn’t believe that. People coming to his funeral didn’t prove that they even _liked_ him, let alone loved him. It was the polite thing to do, to go to a funeral if you were invited. It was polite to the family of the deceased. If anything, this was proof that all these people loved his parents, apart from Zoe’s friends. God knew why anyone would love his parents, but apparently, all these people did.

     Except Hansen. The guy stuck out like a sore thumb in Connor’s mind. He fiddled with his cast, his face tense, like someone was sticking a needle into his arm and he was trying not to flinch.

     Connor tuned back into his mother’s speech.

     “…he was young, he would spend hours making him and his sister laugh. He would say the ‘how did the chicken cross the road’ joke a thousand times over. To this day, I don’t know why he found it so funny, and, yes, sometimes it got a little annoying to hear it over and over again. But now, looking back on it, I wouldn’t change it for the world. And why _did_ the chicken cross the road? I think it was to make Connor happy.”

     Connor screwed up his nose, making an audible sound of disgust. Talk about cheesy. Jesus Christ.

     Connor’s mother sighed, and wiped a hand across her cheek. “And even now that Connor’s g–” Connor’s mother cut herself off, her face crumpling up. She bowed her head. Connor’s father stepped forward and put his arm around her shoulder, rubbing her arm with his other hand. He murmured something into her ear, and she nodded, looking back up, taking a shuddering breath. She swallowed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, and tried again. “Sorry,” she said. She cleared her throat. “And even now that Connor’s gone, he’s still here with us. He’s here in me, and Larry, and Zoe; he’s here in all of you; he’s here in the music he loved, when it comes on the radio; he’s here in his empty spot at the dining table.”

     She looked over to Hansen, smiling. “And he’s here in Evan Hansen, who has been the silver lining in a torrential storm.”

     Connor’s gaze flicked to Hansen immediately. Hansen’s eyes went wide and he sunk a little further in his seat, and Connor saw his complexion go from ghostly white to ghostly white with a tinge of green. Or maybe Connor was just imagining it.

     “We didn’t know that Connor had any– _many_ friends, but then we were gifted with the best friend we never knew he had. And it’s truly a blessing – really, I can’t stress it enough – to be able to hear all these stories and heartwarming memories that Evan had with Connor, in a time when the rest of us felt so disconnected from him. I’m so grateful to hear that, even though Connor was quietly suffering, he at least had pockets of happiness in his life. Thanks to Evan, I now feel closer to my son than I had in a long time.”

     Connor bore his gaze into Hansen’s face, watching, waiting to see what Hansen would do.

     Hansen just managed a tiny smile – no, he _definitely_ looked green, that wasn’t Connor’s imagination – and a slight nod.

     Zoe glanced at Hansen out of the corner of her eye with a slightly sour look on her face. Although, Zoe pretty much always looked sour.

     “I don’t know why Connor took his own life,” Connor’s mother said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know what was making him so unhappy. And although I know, logically, it’s not really my fault, it’s unbelievably difficult to remind myself of that. At night I lie awake wondering what more I could have done. So I urge you all, please, if you have children, talk to them. Let them know that you will do all you can to help them if they are struggling. If your child seems to be acting out, don’t dismiss them. Seek to find answers. Listen to what they say when they are angry or hurting. I pray for you that it’s only typical teenage angst, but kids are clever. They hide these things from the world so well. So don’t ever be satisfied in the knowledge that your child will just mature as they age, that they’ll grow out of it. Because they may not get the chance. And if you’re anyone – child or adult – who is as unhappy as Connor was, I urge you to get help. Things _will_ get better, but sometimes you can’t do it on your own. And that’s okay.”

     Tears silently fell down her cheeks, but she persevered.

     Connor stopped listening.

     Get help? _Get help_? Connor had _tried_ to get help. Three years ago. The first time he’d tried to commit suicide, and failed. If that hadn’t been an obvious cry for help, then he didn’t know what was.

     But what had he received as a result of almost fucking dying? Admonishment. A lecture. A speech on why he shouldn’t _do this sort of thing for attention_. On why he shouldn’t _scare everyone like that_. On how he _clearly had no understanding of how serious his actions and the possible consequences_ were.

     That had all come from his father, but still – his mother hadn’t stepped in to intervene, or try to protect Connor. She’d just gone along with it all.

     “Fucking hypocrite,” Connor growled.

 

     His mother’s speech ended five tearful, preachy minutes later. Next up was–

     “Said Ajmad?” Connor said incredulously, his eyes bugging out.

     He’d been friends with Said _way_ back, all through elementary school. He used to call Connor ‘Connie’, without ever realising it was a girl’s name. Connor had known it was a girl’s name, but he’d let it slide with Said. They’d started to lose touch after Connor’s mental health had gone downhill, about five years ago. Connor had stopped replying to his messages, stopped wanting to see him. Stopped wanting to see anyone.

     But, man, had Said… He’d grown, that was for sure. And he clearly worked out. In that, uh, he certainly… filled out the dress shirt he was wearing.

     Connor shook his head to clear it. Man, it was fucking trippy to see him again.

     “Uh, hi everyone,” Said began, and Connor pressed his lips together, actively _ignoring_ the way the sound of Said’s voice – his deep, smooth voice – sent a burst of adrenaline throughout his body. Or it would have, if Connor had been alive.

     Connor rolled his eyes at himself. He wasn’t attracted to Said. Said was undeniably attractive, in a objective way, but Connor wasn’t…

     It was Jared Kleinman. When the prick had all but outed himself to Hansen. It was just playing with Connor’s mind.

     No it wasn’t. It wasn’t playing with Connor’s mind. It was just… there, in his subconscious. Like when he read a word he hadn’t heard of before and then happened to see it everywhere.

     Whatever.

     “Most of you wouldn’t recognise me,” Said said. “My name’s Said. I was friends with Connor in elementary school.” He shifted, and rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Uh, you may be thinking why I’m talking up here, if I only knew Connor when we were kids. I lost touch with Connor when we were, like, twelve, I think. We just kinda drifted apart. I haven’t– um, hadn’t spoken to Connor in, like, four or five years or something. But when I heard about what happened…”

     He shook his head. “It really hit me. Like, I didn’t know Connor anymore, not like I used to, but it was like a punch to the chest. Like, I’d still _known_ him, you know? He wasn’t my friend anymore, but he used to be. I have so many memories with him, and of him. Most memories of me between the ages of, like, five and eleven involve him in some way. So I wanted to say something. He used to be so important to me, and I feel like I owe him something. Like, I shouldn’t just sit back. I wanted to say something.”

     Connor found himself almost smiling.

     Said cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know if I believe in the afterlife or whatever, but I just wanted to say, if Connor is somehow listening, wherever his soul may be, if that’s, like, a thing that happens… Connor, I know you were being bullied, and I know that’s why we lost touch. I understand now. When I was twelve, I didn’t really get it. You made me feel like you didn’t care anymore. But now I know that you did. You were dropping hints about how shit– uh, how bad you felt, and I heard you, I did. But I was twelve, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just let our friendship slip away. And I shouldn’t have. If I could go back in time, I’d ask you more about it. I’d talk to my parents about it; maybe get them to talk to your parents. Get you help. Maybe I wouldn’t be here today, talking to your ghost. Instead we’d be at mine or I’d be at yours, and I’d be talking to you. The real you.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe we were destined to drift apart. But at least we would’ve had the chance.”

     Connor couldn’t cry anymore. But he felt like it.

     Said… He…

     Connor didn’t know how to articulate how he felt. Grateful? Liked? Even perhaps loved?

     Said bit his bottom lip, swallowed, and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, letting his head hang. Then he lifted his head again, and opened his eyes. “I don’t know what you were like leading up until this point. But I knew the kid I was friends with, way back when. He was the happiest little man alive. You deserved to be that happy all the time. And I’m really, really sorry you weren’t.” He looked up towards the ceiling. “Rest easy, man.”

     And with that, he stepped back, and made his way back to his seat.

     Connor watched him go, and stared at his face for a little while after he sat down.

     He almost walked over to him, to talk to him.

     But he couldn’t. And he never would be able to ever again.

     He looked back to Hansen. Why did he get stuck with _Hansen_ when he could have been following _Said_ around for all of time?

     It was then that Connor noticed that Zoe was staring into her lap, tears dripping from her cheeks onto her lap. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

     “So you’re finally crying,” Connor said, and it came out a little less harshly than intended. But still, hardly kind.

     Connor’s father went up to the podium. “Thank you, Said,” he said. “Your speech meant a lot to us.”

     He smoothed a hand down his jacket. “Um, those are all the speeches we have for today. In an hour we’re hosting the wake, gathering in the courtyard. Please feel free to stick around until then, or feel free to come later. Or at all; it’s up to you. Again, thank you everyone for showing your support and your love for Connor, and a special thank you to Said.”

     Connor wanted to stay in the church until everyone had left, but Hansen got up and hurried out as soon as he could, so Connor was dragged along behind him.

     “Fucking weak-ass bitch,” Connor muttered as sunlight hit his face.

 

     Hansen spent most of the time before the wake ducking off to the bathroom to splash water on his face and stare helplessly into the mirror, and narrowly avoiding as many conversations as possible.

     Eventually, just before the wake started, Hansen broke, and went up to Connor’s mother. “Um, Cynthia,” he said, tapping her on the arm.

     She looked to him, smiling sadly. “How are you going, Evan?”

     Hansen fidgeted. “I, uh… I think I’m gon–gonna go. I…”

     Connor’s mother took him by the arms. “Oh, no, Evan, please stay. Everyone will want to hear your stories at the wake. Just for half an hour?”

     Hansen’s face fell. “Oh… um…”

     “Just one or two stories. I know everyone would love to hear them. Have you spoken to Said yet? I’m sure you two will have loads to talk about.”

     Connor’s lip twitched. _Stay the fuck away from Said, you leech_.

     Hansen shook his head. “N–no…”

     Connor’s mother glanced around. “I can’t see him. Maybe he’s gone to the bathroom.”

     Hansen frowned a little. “I… I’m sorry, but I–”

     “Have you seen Zoe? I haven’t seen her since the funeral ended.”

     Hansen shook his head again. “Neither have I.”

     Connor looked around. He couldn’t see Zoe, either.

 

     Hansen ended up hanging around like the Spanish Influenza until the wake started. Food and drinks were put out, and Hansen made sure to busy himself with handfuls of salted peanuts and slices of banana bread.

     Every so often, Connor’s mother would track him down and nudge him into a conversation of a couple of people, and Hansen would stammer his way through made-up story after made-up story, until eventually he just said, “I have, um, I have to go. I’m sorry. Th–thank you for, uh, for the lift.”

     He disappeared from the crowd, and hesitantly called for an Uber. Connor snorted. “Good luck with that,” he said. “You’re gonna have to fucking make small talk.”

     Soon, the Uber arrived, and Hansen climbed in. Connor just waited until he was out of range, and then he appeared in his room.

     And there was Zoe, leaning against his closed bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know of any typos! like i said, it's way too late/early, and i hadn't really read through this chapter properly before posting. also, props to anyone who knows why this chapter is called band of horses xx


	9. Connor's Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i'm just as shocked as u are. two chapters in one week????? crazy.  
> anyway, this is basically zoe's part of 'Requiem'. it's fairly short bc it was actually part of a longer chapter, but i didn't want to take the focus away from zoe.  
> hope u enjoy! xx

     Connor stared at Zoe. “What are you doing in here?” he asked, guarded. “Did you actually just flake on my wake?”

     Of course, Zoe couldn’t hear him. Her face was wet and haggard, and her puffy, red eyes shined with more unshed tears.

     She sighed, letting her head fall back against the door. She closed her eyes, just resting them for a moment, and then she pushed off against the door and wandered further into the room, sweeping her gaze over Connor’s belongings.

     Connor watched her carefully. He didn’t know what to do, how to react. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his sister in his room.

     Zoe stopped by Connor’s bed, and hesitated, before sitting down. She let her hand smooth down the blanket, and she watched her hand do so. She sighed again, swallowing thickly, and she shook her head, just a little. “I hate you,” she said quietly.

     Connor had heard her say it a million times. Normally she was screaming it. It didn’t really effect him anymore. But hearing her say it now, even after everything that had happened, without her even knowing that she could hear him – it felt like… Connor didn’t want to say ‘a punch to the gut’. Because he didn’t deserve for it to hurt. God knew he’d told Zoe that he hated her countless times, too – he’d threatened her, he’d yelled at her, called her worthless and a bitch and a slut.

     Why had he done that?

     Zoe sniffed wetly, and shook her head again, and looked up into empty space, not really focusing on anything. “I found your body,” she said simply. She paused, for long enough that Connor thought that that had been all she’d decided to say, but then she continued. “You died three days ago.”

     “You gonna keep stating the facts, or what?” Connor said gruffly.

     Zoe wet her bottom lip with her tongue. “You died three days ago,” she said again, “and today was the first day that I cried.” Her face screwed up at that, fresh tears falling. “And…” She took a shuddering breath. “And you know why I’m crying, Connor? It’s not because I miss you. It’s because I don’t.”

     Connor stopped. He felt something happen within him, like his blood – which he may not have even had anymore – had just solidified in his veins.

     Zoe frowned, harshly wiping at the tears on her face with her hand. “I’m so overwhelmed, and I don’t know what to do, and Mom and Dad are just acting so weird, and then there’s that Evan kid who’s just suddenly _around_ us all the time, and everyone at school is treating me like I’m about to, I don’t know, have some kind of meltdown. Like I’m made of fucking china.” She whimpered, dropping her head. “Stop it,” she whispered. “Stop fucking crying. Stop.”

     She covered her face with her hands, took a few long, deep breaths, and lowered her hands, looking up again. “That’s why I’m crying,” she said, her voice steadier. “It’s just a lot. To take in. And it’s all because of you. Everything is all because of you, and it always has been.” She took another deep breath, in and out. “Every time we couldn’t do something, or Mom or Dad was stressed or embarrassed or angry, every time I was too afraid to leave my room, every time I slept over at a friend’s house because I thought you were going to kill me in my sleep… It was all because of you.”

     Connor had not moved a millimetre.

     Zoe’s eyes began watering again, but she blinked them away. “And I’m crying because…” She exhaled slowly. “Because I’m…” She cut herself off again, and seemed to be taking a while to muster the courage to speak. “Because I’m _happy_.”

     Her chin wobbled, and she frowned, shaking her head. “Well, happier. Than I was before. And I can’t admit that to anyone because it’s horrible. I can’t tell people I’m happy because my brother– It’s not because you’re dead, Connor; I’m just happy you’re _gone_. I’m happy you’re not here to hurt me or scare me anymore. I’m just… relieved.”

     She sniffed. “I’m sure that – well, maybe, one day, I’ll look back and be sad. But why _should_ I be… be _grieving_ over you, Connor? Just because you were my brother? You hated me. And I… I hated you. I still do. I really hate you. And I’ve hated you for so long, and I hate you now, because even when you’re dead, you’re still making everyone miserable. But I’m also glad, you know? I think this’ll be better, for everyone. In the long run. You, being gone. I think Mom and Dad will be happier. I know I will.”

     If Connor could cry anymore, he knew he would be. But he couldn’t, so he just continued to stand there. He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

     Zoe was silent for a minute, before speaking again. “You know, everyone keeps telling me how sorry they are. How they didn’t know you, but they’re ‘sure that you were so nice’, and that I’m ‘so brave’ for coming back to school so soon. You know how many people have just straight-up told me that I should go home? Give myself ‘time to grieve’?” She snorted a laugh, but she didn’t smile. “Everyone just says what they think is the right thing to say. That’s all it is. I wish they wouldn’t say anything at all. Just move on.”

     Connor realised that he was absentmindedly clenching and unclenching his right hand. He let himself keep doing it. He didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself, anyway.

     Zoe sat up straighter, sighing. “I don’t know why you killed yourself. I don’t really care – well, I’m a little curious, but that’s all. I assume it’s because you were just so miserable with what you’d done to your own life, and you couldn’t be bothered to try to fix anything. You could’ve tried.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I ever would’ve forgiven you. Maybe after ten years or something. But maybe not. But now you’ll never know. _We’ll_ never know.”

     She ran her hands down her face. “You were a fucking monster,” she said. “I’ve had nightmares about you, you know. So many. Really bad ones. I wake up crying, or with my mouth open like I’m trying to scream, but I can’t. And I’ll probably keep having nightmares like that for a really long time. But at least you’re not around anymore to help create new ones. Maybe they’ll even fade away, one day.”

     She stood up, and walked to the door, passing through Connor as she did so. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Goodbye, Connor,” she murmured to the room. Her chin wobbled, just a little, and she smiled. “I’m really glad you’re gone.”

     She let herself out, closing the door behind her.

     Connor listened to her go back into her own room. When he heard the door close, he turned to face Zoe’s room, talking to her through the wall. “I…” He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples, pushing hard, like he was trying to crush his skull in between his hands. He let out a weak scream, muffled slightly by his clenched teeth. “It wasn’t…” He dropped his hands and stepped closer to his bedroom wall. “Fuck you, Zoe!” he cried. “Fuck you! I… How the fuck…”

     He covered his face with his hands and screamed, and then back at the wall. “I hate you, you bitch!” he yelled. He reached out like he was going to hit the wall, realised he couldn’t, and instead just clenched his fists. He was breathing heavily. “You fucking selfish… _Argh_!”

     He sat down – crumpling to the floor – and put his head on his knees, wishing he could cry. He felt like crying. He _wanted_ to cry. But he couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love how the musical handled Zoe's emotions, in that she'd hated what her brother had done to her but she still loved him deep down. but i wanted to do a slightly different take on it, bc i didn't want to fall into that trap of 'she loves him bc they're brother and sister and familial love trumps all', bc sometimes it doesn't. from what we see/hear of in the musical, Connor was pretty damn horrible to Zoe. I mean, Zoe literally calls him a monster. i think there's an added layer there bc Connor clearly suffered from mental illness, but no one in his family seemed to understand it, or just 'forgot' about it so they didn't have to deal with it, and just blamed Connor for being an angsty teen. but despite his mental illness, that's no excuse to be abusive to his sister, either.  
> idk. i think it's interesting. if u have any similar/wildly different theories/thoughts, drop 'em in the comments below, i'd love to read them! :) x


	10. Liminal Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK AFTER SEVEN MONTHS  
> holy shit y'all idk what i'm more shook about - the fact that i barely touched this story for seven months or the fact that i actually came back to it. i'm sorry for being absent, i just completely lost inspo for this story (and my hamilton multi-chapter... but u guys get the update woo!) instead of doing homework which i desperately needed to do, I decided to give a crack at this boi again. the first half of this chapter was written seven months ago, and the second was written a few weeks ago, and tbh i haven't really looked at it since but i just wrote the chapter that follows this one and my brain is tired after spending too many hours staring at a computer screen procrastinating oops, so i hope it's okay.  
> disclaimer: i am not about to claim that i'm going back to regular/semi-regular updating. i'll see what i can do, but no promises, i'm afraid. but next week i'll have another chapter at least :) hope you enjoy! x

     When he lifted his head again, he was in Hansen’s bedroom. Hansen was lying on his bed, his eyes focused lazily on the screen, a small frown wrinkling his eyebrows as he scrolled mindlessly. He was still in his suit, tie and all. Like he’d just collapsed onto his bed and couldn’t do anything else.

     Seeing him lying there, looking like he’d just piloted a crashing passenger plane or something, like he’d never have the energy to do anything else ever again except scroll through his Facebook feed or whatever, made Connor realise how tired he was himself. He was still angry, but mostly he was just drained. And sad. But he didn’t tell himself that part. “I bet you’re really fucking pleased with yourself,” Connor said, his voice soft. “You managed to pull that one off remarkably well.”

     Hansen scratched his nose and chewed on his bottom lip absentmindedly.

     Connor sighed, and folded his arms on top of his knees, resting his chin on his forearms. “You’re lucky you’re an only child,” he muttered.

     He continued to watch Hansen for a few minutes in silence, though his mind was racing, replaying everything that Zoe had said. He was angry, _so angry_ with her. How could she say those things about him? How could she say that she was _happy_ he was _dead_? How sick in the head was she?

     But mostly Connor was angry about the fact that Zoe had just confirmed everything Connor had told himself before he’d committed suicide. That he was a mess of a person and he couldn’t be fixed; that everyone would be better off without him. Those were _his_ thoughts, his private thoughts. And once he died, they were meant to go away. And to have them spat back in his face, after he was already dead, letting him know that he was right, and no one _had_ cared about him…

     Connor shook his head and hid his face behind his arms, pressing his forehead into his forearms. It’s what he deserved. He just didn’t want to have to deal with it.

     He stayed by Hansen’s side for the rest of the afternoon, just sitting on his bedroom floor. Even when the front door opened, and Hansen sat up with a gasp, checking the time, and scrambled to change out of his suit and into more casual clothing, Connor just averted his gaze.

     Hansen dove back onto his bed and froze for a moment, thinking, before snatching his laptop up from where it sat beside his bed and shoving it open, just as there was a light knock on the door.

     “C– uh, come in,” he said, tilting his laptop screen down a little.

     Hansen’s mother poked her head in. “Hey, honey,” she said with a smile. She let herself in. She was wearing nurse’s scrubs.

     Hansen’s mother, whatever her name was, had always looked… nice, to Connor. She had a kind face. Not like his mother. His mother always looked stressed and cranky.

     Hansen’s mother looked stressed, too, but more tired. But she always seemed to save a smile for Hansen. Why she bothered, Connor didn’t know, but bother she did.

     “Hi, Mom,” Hansen said, not really looking at her.

     “I’m home a bit earlier today. How are you?” his mother said, carefully, like she was talking to a scared horse, but trying to be positive about it. She kept her distance, just inching closer ever so slowly. “What’d you get up to today?”

     “Um, n-not much.”

     Hansen’s mother paused, waiting for more information, which Hansen didn’t provide. She nodded, looking crestfallen. “So, a day of relaxing. Just chilling out. That sounds nice.”

     “Yeah.”

     Connor snorted. Even though Hansen had firmly established himself as a _massive_ fucking liar, it was still slightly jarring to hear the guy so casually lie to his own mother about going to a funeral.

     Hansen’s mother carefully perched herself on the edge of Hansen’s bed. “What’re you working on now?”

     “N-Nothing.”

     Hansen’s mother gave her son a tight smile. “Um, okay. Well, I’m just gonna go shower and get changed. My class starts in a couple of hours. Did you want to order pizza for dinner tonight?”

     Hansen looked up at that. He didn’t seem to like that idea at all. “Um… I’m… not really hungry.”

     Hansen’s mother paused. “You know what we said the other day, honey? About trying? I know it’s hard, but if you, I don’t know, order the pizza online, and then have all the correct change ready, maybe you could just… give it a tr–”

     Hansen made a short humming sound that sounded less like a hum of thought and more like a hum of simmering frustration. Or maybe mild panic. “Actually, Mom,” he said quickly, finally properly looking at her for the first time in the whole conversation, “I’m– I’m just n-not hungry? So.” He shrugged a shoulder, a little jerk.

     After a beat, he looked back down again his lap, picking at the hem of his pants.

     His mom continued to stare at him. Connor was, he had to admit, very impressed by the way she didn’t get angry at Hansen for cutting her off. She took a small intake of breath, thinking, and then said, “Evan–” But she cut herself off when she saw how Hansen tensed at her tone – which, Connor thought, didn’t even sound that reprimanding. She nodded to herself, and instead said, “Would you like me to order it before I leave?”

     Hansen shrugged a shoulder. “Well, y-you don’t have– have to, I mean I said I’m, um, n-not really hungry, but if, um, if you’re – if you’re ordering, then I’ll… I m-might have some.”

     Hansen’s mother smiled, a little sadly, and reached over, squeezing Hansen’s knee. “Okay, honey. Pepperoni?”

     “Yes please.”

     Hansen’s mother stood up to leave, but then Hansen lifted his head. “Could you, um, c-could you – seeing as you’re, um, you’re going to class, a-and you won’t– won’t be here w-when the pizza arrives – could you p-pay with y-your card, um, online? O-or over the phone? Please?”

     Hansen’s mother almost looked like she was about to suggest Hansen _try_ again, but instead she just smiled. “Sure, honey,” she said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, like she was overcompensating, or trying to give Hansen’s weak, frail ego whatever boost she could. “Great idea.”

     Her phone rang, and she took it out of her pocket with a sigh, and then answered. “Hello?” She listened for a few minutes, and then closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly looking even more tired from before. She opened her eyes again to respond. “Yeah, of course. But I can only do until four… Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s fine… I only just arrived at home, and I haven’t had lunch yet, so I’ll be about forty minutes… Yep… Okay, thanks, Jeanine. See you soon. Okay. Bye.”

     She hung up and her shoulders dropped. “Hey, um, I gotta head back to work,” she said to Hansen, who barely even reacted. “Someone suddenly dropped their shift, and they asked me to cover. I’ll be home around four-thirty, okay? I’ll order pizza then.”

     Hansen glanced up at her. “Oh, um… okay.”

     Hansen’s mom reached over and ruffled Hansen’s hair. “I’ll see you in a couple hours, then.”

     “Mm-hmm.”

     “Remember to have some lunch.”

     “Mm.”

     Hansen’s mom sighed, and squeezed Hansen’s shoulder. “See you later, honey.”

     Hansen nodded, staring into his lap. “Bye, Mom.”

     “I love you,” Hansen’s mom added with a smile.

     “Y-yeah, me too.”

     With that, Hansen’s mom finally left.

     Hansen waited, listening, until he heard the front door close. He continued to stare into space for another minute or so, and then, to Connor’s surprise, he curled into a ball and let out the most miserable-sounding whine Connor had ever heard.

     Connor even took half a step-back, unsure how to process it all. He just stood there, watching Hansen sob into his pillow, watching his body shake, hearing him barely draw in each breath and hearing how it sounded almost painful to do so.

     “Good,” Connor said, but he didn’t sound too sure.


	11. Subject to Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's me again! wow!  
> sorry this week's chapter is so short. i was going to combine the next two chapters into one, but decided against it, bc they didn't quite fit together. next week will be a nice long chapter, i promise! but i felt this chapter was important to have bc i was all like 'huh... so far there's not actually anything that interesting about evan's character in this fic. it's pretty much plot. i should fix that.' so here ya go.  
> this chapter i spent a lot of time rewriting and revising, and who knows, i may go back and alter it later.  
> as always, hope you enjoy! x

     Monday rolled around, and so did the following week, and everything seemed to return to normal – or whatever normal was these days. Connor’s parents were still acting weird, all nice and sad and quiet, and Zoe had decided to take up the role of ‘Angst-Ridden Teen’ in Connor’s permanent absence, but at least now they didn’t have a funeral to plan for. They were all forced to return to their daily activities.

     Oh, yeah. And Hansen was still hanging around them. But somehow, unfortunately, that was almost becoming the new normal, too.

     Connor was falling into a routine. He’d always hated routines, but nowadays, he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d follow Hansen around at school, observing the other students, and whenever he grew bored he took himself to his bedroom and played with note in his back pocket.

     He was getting really damn good at making paper airplanes. But it sucked that he didn’t get to see them fly for more than a second or two before they disappeared.

     He also practiced trying to solidify his form enough to be able to sit and lie down – which was an experience. There wasn’t any kind of instruction booklet as to how to go about it, but he found it was more about willing himself to be more solid than anything else. Picturing himself sitting on his bed with everything he had. Imaging what it would feel like to sit down.

     Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. It was exhausting and dull, but Connor hadn’t really practiced any kind of skill in years – apart from practicing pretending to be sober in front of his parents when he was off his face. So, yeah, it was satisfying to slowly start seeing the results.

     Hansen’s dinnertime visits, Connor could tell, were quickly becoming a part of that routine. Every other night he was there, sitting in Connor’s seat, chatting to Connor’s parents and Connor’s sister like he belonged there.

     At night, Connor usually lay on the floor and let time pass. Sometimes he could hear Zoe moving around in her room next door, even in the early hours of the morning; Connor wondered what she was doing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in her room. He couldn’t remember what it looked like.

     And, despite himself, Connor found himself almost… _pitying_ Hansen. It was hard not to, after being stuck with him almost constantly. He had all these bizarre systems in place to protect himself. From what, Connor wasn’t sure. But in every class, Hansen would answer one question voluntarily, and one question only – Connor figured out that this was so he wasn’t called on unexpectedly, and so he wouldn’t be singled out for not participating in class. And he always at least gave the illusion that he was working on something: he was always scribbling things down in his notebooks, or typing away at his laptop. Connor thought he was being a nerd, but on closer inspection he saw that, a lot of the time, Hansen was just writing nonsense. Sometimes it was more weird letters to himself, and sometimes it was just random sentences like _Shakespeare concluded Horatio sword similarly quoted however Romeo_ , or _Historians debate arguably French revolution 1875 leader Empire_. Just looking busy for the sake of looking busy, to avoid conversation. And sometimes, he wrote kind of fact sheets about trees.

     That was something that Connor quickly grew to understand about Hansen: he fucking loved trees.

     During break at school, if he wasn’t holed up in the library or being bugged by Kleinman – the latter of which, in all honestly, rarely happened – then he was sitting near or under trees. He would study the leaves that had fallen from the branches, or he’d run his finger over the bark, inspecting every bump and dip. He would often bring his laptop with him, and research what type of tree he was sitting under – although Connor had the feeling that he had a pretty good understanding already of the types of trees at school.

     At home, Hansen would spend hours reading up on different species of trees, or flicking through this gigantic encyclopaedia of trees he had, or scrolling through pictures of trees – close-up photos of bark, wide shots of expansive forests, low-angled pictures of towering trees and the canopies around them. Slippery Elms, Honey-locusts, Hawthorns, Quaking Aspens, Pignut Hickories, Paper Birch, Basalm Firs, White Ash, Black Ash, Scarlet Oak, Eucalyptus, Eastern Redcedar, Sassafras, and so many damn types of Maples. And the scientific names, Jesus Christ.

     Connor was still getting used to that. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that a real, live human being’s main hobby was… trees. Sure, Connor had had his moments in his life where he’d found himself sitting under a tree and listening to the rustling of the branches in the wind, or something poetic like that. And he’d climbed his fair share of trees as a kid. But it was fucking weird, seeing Hansen’s fascination with trees. Hansen would get lost in his research, in his scrolling, in his studying, and something about him would… change. He twitched less, and barely fiddled at all. He never frowned, or chewed on his lip nervously. His whole body would settle in a way that Connor hadn’t thought possible. Sometimes his eyes would land on a particularly nice photo of a tree, and a small smile would grace his lips.

     The only time Connor saw him grin was when he watched videos of people soaring through trees in flying foxes, or time-lapsed videos of trees growing. Connor often found himself asking who the fuck would spend their time taking a photo each day of a damn tree growing, but, hey, surely Hansen couldn’t be the only motherfucker who liked trees on this godforsaken planet.

     Despite not being super talkative, Hansen was a loud sort of person. Not volume-wise, but his constant moving and shifting meant that he was never really quiet. But when he looked at trees, that all changed.

     Of course, Connor still couldn’t stand the bastard. He hated that anything at all gave Hansen any kind of joy. But at least he stopped fidgeting.

 


	12. You Did What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the long chapter, as promised. I'm procrastinating a 2500-word essay right now and I think I'm getting sick right before my singing assessment and just as tech week for my production is starting help me. Hope u enjoy! xx

     It was two weeks and four days since Connor had died. He was bored out his mind. There were only so many ways you could play with a fucking piece of paper or try to teach yourself how to be somewhat corporeal. Couldn’t someone murder an iPhone or something?

     Hansen was over for dinner again. Connor hadn’t been able to stomach how happy he and his parents had looked, so he’d disappeared into his room.

     Zoe was there, sitting on his bed.

     Connor wasn’t entirely surprised. On occasion, usually late at night, she slipped into his room, only for a few minutes at a time. Once, she’d spoken to him, just mumbling a story about when they were kids, but mostly she just sat in silence, blinking into the darkness, before padding back to her own room.

     At first, he’d hated it – it had felt like a violation of his space – but there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he had no choice but to get used to it.

     He was, however, a little surprised that Zoe was in his room now, at this time, especially with Hansen downstairs.

     Connor could hear someone coming up the stairs, but Zoe was too in her head to notice.

     “Zoe?” Hansen called softly, and Connor heard him cracking open her bedroom door. Zoe’s head snapped up, but she didn’t have time to escape before Hansen said her name again and gently rapped on Connor’s bedroom door, poking his head in.

     Zoe shot to her feet, but then Hansen was blurting out, “Oh, I’m– I’m sorry, I didn’t– just, dessert is j-just about ready – but you’re clear– clearly… I’ll leave–”

     “Why are you here?” Zoe shot at him.

     Hansen blinked, turning back to her. “Wh-What?”

     “Doesn’t it bother your mom that you’re always here?”

     “I’m – I’m not _always_ here.”

     “It sure seems like it.”

     “My – my mom w-works most n-nights. Or she has class.”

     “Class?”

     “She’s, um, she’s studying.”

     “What about your dad?”

     Hansen frowned a little. “Uh, he’s… He m-moved to Col-Colorado when I w-was seven, so – he doesn’t r-really mind much, either.”

     Zoe’s face fell. “Oh.”

     There was a beat, and then Hansen said, “Y-your parents are r-really gre-great.”

     “They hate each other,” Zoe snapped. “All they do is fight all the time.”

     “W-Well, ev-everyone’s parents f-fight,” Hansen said.

     “My dad’s in denial,” Zoe said. “He hasn’t cried once, you know. It’s like Connor’s not even dead. It’s like my dad’s mad at him for dying. Like he’s about to ground him for killing himself.”

     “I’m – I’m sorry.”

     “It’s fine,” Zoe said shortly.

     “It’s – It’s not l-like you need symp-sympathy from me.” Hansen’s face went pale, and Zoe raised her eyebrows. “Oh – Oh my gosh, I’m – I’m so s-sorry, that w-was so r-rude.”

     “I didn’t think you were capable of saying anything that wasn’t nice,” Zoe said with a laugh.

     “I’m – I’m not,” Hansen said. “I’m n-nice! I – I don’t ev-even _think_ thi-things that – that aren’t – aren’t nice.”

     Zoe laughed again. “It was a compliment,” she said. “You’re ruining it.”

     “Sorry.”

     Zoe smiled. “You really don’t have to keep saying that.”

     Hansen paused, and said, “O-Okay.”

     He shifted where he stood, and Zoe said, “You want to say it again, don’t you?”

     “V-very much so, y-yes.”

     Zoe regarded him. “You’re weird.”

     “I know.”

     Zoe tucked her hair behind her ear. “You can come in. If you want to.”

     Hansen paused. “A– Are you… Are you sure?”

     Zoe nodded, smiling slightly. “Yeah. I was just sitting here, anyway.” She sat down on the bed again, perched on the edge.

     Hansen smiled back – and the way he smiled at her, a little bashful but grateful and maybe even _hopeful_ , made Connor’s gut twist. He didn’t know why. Disgust, maybe? Probably. That had to be it.

     Hansen closed the door behind him, and looked around the room. Connor realised that this was actually the first time Hansen had ever set foot in his bedroom.

     He wanted him out. Zoe was barely allowed in here, let alone _him_.

     Hansen fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he slowly turned in a circle, drinking it all in. Zoe mostly looked at the floor, but glanced at Hansen every so often.

     “My parents don’t know,” Zoe said suddenly, breaking the silence. Hansen looked to her. “That I come in here sometimes.”

     “I w– won’t tell them,” Hansen reassured her.

     She smiled a little wider, and shook her head. “No, that’s not what I was…” She chuckled slightly. “I just like to sit in here sometimes. Think about stuff.”

     “Like what?”

     “Mostly stuff about Connor,” Zoe said with feigned nonchalance, looking down at the floor again. “There’s a lot for me to kind of think about with him, I guess.”

     “Y– yeah,” Hansen agreed vaguely.

     “Don’t act like you know,” Connor said. “You have no fucking idea.”

     Zoe nodded, and Connor thought the conversation was over, but then Zoe spoke again, like it was an afterthought. “I don’t know how much Connor talked about me, or what exactly he said about me, but I want you to know that most of what he probably said probably isn’t true.”

     Connor scoffed.

     Hansen frowned. “What– what do you m-mean?”

     Zoe shrugged. “I dunno,” she said with an awkward laugh that was more of a huff than anything else. “I mean, he hated me, so I just kinda assumed that he used to bitch about me a lot? He probably used to go on about how much of a bitch I was, and how, I dunno, _ugly_ I was, or something. So you probably don’t think much of me, either.”

     “ _No_ ,” Hansen said quickly. “No, not at– not at _all_.”

     Zoe squinted at him. “Evan, you don’t have to pretend to be nice to me. Connor was your friend, not me.”

     “No,” Hansen said again, with even more conviction than the first time. “He… Connor l-loved you.”

     Zoe shook her head, looking disappointed with his answer. “Look, Evan, if you’re gonna lie to me–”

     “I’m not,” Hansen said.

     Connor’s mouth fell open. “Wow,” he said. “ _Wow_. That’s pretty fucking bold, Hansen. Pretty _fucking_ bold for someone who hasn’t stopped lying since you gave me that stupid fucking note.” He could feel the note now, in his pocket, like it was burning him. He was always super-aware of its presence. His inescapable tie to the dipshit in front of him.

     “Connor th-thought you, um, you were… awesome,” Hansen said with an encouraging half-smile and nod.

     Zoe still didn’t look entirely convinced. “‘Awesome’? Connor said that? About me?”

     “Yeah.”

     Zoe stared at Hansen for a good few seconds, thinking things over, and then said again, in a much smaller voice, “Really?”

     Hansen nodded. “Yeah.”

     “How do you know?”

     “He used, um, he– he used to tell me.”

     “He did?”

     “All the, um, the time.”

     “What did he say?”

     Hansen sat down beside her, and took a breath. That was something that Connor was starting to become irritatingly familiar with – Hansen was just taking a moment to come up with yet another lie. “He… um… He used to – uh – say th-that y-you had a real– a really nice smile.”

     Zoe frowned. “I have a really nice smile?”

     “Uh-huh. ‘It’ – uh – ‘l-lights up the– the room’; he us-used to, uh, to say that, um, t-to me all the – all the time. Well, not… not _all_ the, uh, the time, but he def-definitely said it.”

     Connor shook his head. “What the actual fuck, Hansen.”

     “Especially, um, when you – you have a solo, in jazz band,” Hansen added. “You prob-probably don’t even notice, but you – you get th-this, um, little smile. Like – like you have– have a secret.”

     “Do I?” Zoe said.

     “Yeah. And,” Hansen jumped in, “and, Connor, he – he used, um, u-used to talk ab-about how you, uh, draw on – on your jeans.” He pointed to the cuffs of Zoe’s jeans, which, sure enough, had faint blue and black stars scribbled onto them.

     Connor knew all about Zoe drawing on her jeans. In primary school it had been her arms and legs – every day she’d come home with her homemade tattoos, and nothing that their mother or her teachers said to her could stop it.

     Until she reached high school, and drawing all over yourself suddenly wasn’t so cool. So instead Zoe turned to her jeans. Just her jeans – maybe she thought that the material hid the pen better than other clothes, or it was easier to draw on, or something. Their mother couldn’t stand it. _Stop ruining your clothes_ , she said every fucking week. _Jeans aren’t free, you know. If you’re going to keep ruining them then I’ll make you buy your own_.

     But she never did. Whenever Connor had damaged his clothes (or lost them, which had happened a couple of times when he’d gone on benders and woken up with no memory of what had gone down), he’d had to pay for new ones. But not Zoe. Zoe always had her clothes paid for her.

     Zoe twisted towards Hansen more, one leg coming up between them, showing off the stars even more. “My mom hates it when I do that,” Zoe said with a chuckle, as if reading Connor’s mind. She tugged on the cuff.

     “I like it,” Hansen said in a small voice.

     Zoe looked to him. There was a slight pause, and, before Zoe could reply, Hansen blurted, “And – and so did C-Connor.”

     Connor didn’t know if he was more frustrated with the fact that Hansen was so bad at lying, or that Zoe had known her own brother so poorly that she couldn’t even tell.

     “Bitch,” Connor muttered, crossing his arms.

     “Wow,” Zoe said, nodding to herself. “That’s…” She huffed again, a half-smile on her face. “I really didn’t expect Connor to say any of that.”

     “Maybe you know me better than I thought,” Connor said dryly.

     “Yeah,” Hansen said. “Well, he – he did.”

     Zoe traced over one of the stars on her jeans with her finger. Hansen watched her with a dumb look on his face that made Connor’s lip curl.

     “Did he say anything else?” Zoe asked hesitantly, glancing up at Hansen.

     Hansen blinked, as if being shaken from his thoughts. “Ab-about you?”

     Zoe froze for a second, and then shook her head, looking down. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t really even care, I just–”

     “No, no, no, no, he – he did,” Hansen blurted out, “he s-said, uh, he said loads of – of things, I’m just… There were, um, so many.” He took another breath, and said, “He… Remember when y-you, uh, last year, when – you were, um, in – you dyed your hair?”

     “The purple streaks?” Zoe said.

     Hansen nodded. “Indigo,” he said, borderline fucking reverently. “Connor th-thought you looked really pr-pretty – _um_ , cool. Pretty cool. With the, uh, the… Yeah.”

     Zoe smiled. “He did?”

     “No,” Connor said. “They looked tacky.”

     Hansen, spurred on by her positive reaction, nodded again, more enthusiastically. “Mm. And – and at the – at the spring, um, spring d-dance, he saw y-you, um, danc– dancing, and you were…” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “You were d-dancing with your, uh, your fr-friends, and, um, he – you were dancing like… like nobo-nobody was, was watching. And he, um, thought that – that was, uh, awe-awesome.”

     “I wasn’t _at_ the spring dance last year,” Connor said, at the same time Zoe said, “I thought he didn’t go to the spring dance last year.”

     “He did,” Hansen said quickly. “You, uh, didn’t – didn’t see him. He w-was only th-there for, um, like, uh, ten – ten minutes, b-but he – he was there.”

     Zoe sighed. “Wow,” she said again, shaking her head. “He really told you all of this?”

     “Yeah. He th-thought the world of – of you. He…” Hansen swallowed. “He loved you, Zoe.”

     Zoe’s brow furrowed, and she glanced away. “Oh,” she said.

     “I’m – I’m sorry,” Hansen said. “I d-didn’t mean to m-make you sad.”

     “You didn’t,” Zoe reassured him, but she didn’t exactly sound too cheery. She looked back to him. “It’s fine.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Why… Why didn’t Connor say anything?”

     Hansen froze. “Wh– huh?”

     Zoe shrugged a shoulder. “He was so… different around me, to put it nicely. He hates me – _hated_ me. I _thought_ he hated me. But he said all this stuff to you about how he loved me. Why wouldn’t he have said all of that to me? Why did he act like he hated me if he didn’t?”

     A slight intake of breath. “He… He felt like, er, you – you two w-were so far ap-apart, you know? Y-you had s-such dif-different lives. And he’d – he’d already m-made so, um, so many mis-mistakes, and – and he didn’t… He didn’t kn-know how to even start trying to – to fix them.”

     Zoe looked down at her jeans. “Yeah,” she mumbled.

     Hansen reached out again, but this time followed through, taking her hand and squeezing gently.

     Zoe let him.

     Connor’s hands curled into fists.

     “I’m s-sorry,” Hansen said.

     “For what?”

     “Th-that you’re sad.”

     Zoe said nothing at that. Connor thought back to the first time she’d cried since he’d died. _I’m crying because I’m happy_ , she’d said.

     He wondered if she was still happy now.

     “Thanks for telling me,” Zoe said softly, squeezing Hansen’s hand.

     They locked eyes. Connor’s fists grew tighter.

     “Don’t you fucking dare,” Connor growled.

     Hansen leant forward and pressed his lips against Zoe’s.

     “ _Motherfucker_ ,” Connor spat, wishing with everything he had that he could punch the shitbag in the face.

     But Hansen got what he deserved, in a way, when Zoe wrenched herself away, shooting to her feet. “What are you doing?” she said, shocked.

     Hansen’s deer-in-headlights look was, in Connor’s opinion, pretty satisfying to see. “I’m – I’m sorry, I – I thought–”

     “Evan–”

     “Evan!” Connor’s mom called from downstairs. “Zoe! Dessert’s been ready for a while, what’s the hold-up?”

     Zoe crossed her arms. “Go have dessert,” she muttered, and left Hansen alone in Connor’s room.

     Hansen’s shoulders sagged, and he rubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck,” Connor heard him say very quietly.

     “Zoe!” Connor’s mom called again. “Evan!”

     “Uh, sorry, coming, sorry!” Hansen replied quickly, and hurried out of Connor’s room, closing the door behind him.

     Zoe did not respond.

 

 

     “You _what_?”

     “I – I dunno, I w-wasn’t thinking–”

     “I can’t believe you tried to kiss Zoe Murphy while sitting on her _dead brother’s bed_. After talking about her _dead brother_.”

     Hansen rubbed his free hand over his cast. His face was bright red. It had been only a few hours since Hansen had kissed Zoe, and Connor had to admit that he was surprised when Hansen had Facetimed Jared Kleinman the minute he’d gotten home.

     “As fucking stupid as Kleinman is, he’s got a solid fucking point, you dumb shit,” Connor said to Hansen.

     “Hey, asshole,” Kleinman said, but, unlike Connor, he said it with a kind of warm fondness. “No response?”

     Hansen glanced up at the screen. “Wh-what’s that you’re, um, you’re wearing?”

     Connor went behind Hansen, passing through his bed, to peer at the screen, where Kleinman was proudly gesturing to the button pinned on his shirt. “Oh, this?” Kleinman said.

     “Is that C-Connor’s face?”

     “Sure is. I’m selling them tomorrow at lunch time. Nifty, huh?”

     Connor’s mouth dropped open. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You’re making money off me dying?”

     “You’re m-making mon-money off of this?” Hansen said at the same time.

     “Hey, gotta be in it to win it. Have you seen the wristbands with Connor’s initials on it that Sabrina Patel started selling during free period? Or the T-shirts Matt Hozer’s mom made?”

     “They what?” Connor said. “Why aren’t _I_ making any fucking money from this?”

     “What am I g-gonna do ab-about Zoe?” Hansen said.

     Kleinman gawked. “Are you kidding? After last night, you can never go back to that house again. Don’t even fucking look at her.” He shrugged. “Besides, another couple days and this whole Connor thing will be old news.”

     “But – but what about the, uh, the shirts, a-and the wristbands–”

     “Exactly! It’s the prime time, which is why I gotta get these buttons out before the bottom drops out in the Connor Murphy memorabilia market.”

     “Jesus Christ,” Connor said with a disbelieving laugh.

     “Pretty soon,” Kleinman continued, “there’ll be some third-world country that has a tsunami or a hurricane or an earthquake or something blow it to bits, and everyone will be all about raising money for that catastrophe, and then Connor will just become that dead kid who no one remembers.”

     Connor stepped back, his shoulders dropping. He swallowed, and then said quietly, “It’s not like anyone knew who I was when I was alive, anyway.”

     It was meant to be a rebuttal. But it came out sounding like he was trying to comfort himself.

     “Y-You don’t kn-know that,” Hansen said.

     “Hey, it was fun while it lasted,” Kleinman said dismissively. “You got to spend some quality time with your fake family, got to lay one on Zoe Murphy–”

     “That’s – that’s not why I d-did it,” Hansen cut in. “I – I was – was helping them.”

     Kleinman paused, not seemingly convinced, and then said, “Regardless, man, we’re on the way out. A week from now, everyone will have forgotten about Connor.”

     Hansen looked down at his cast, running his fingers over Connor’s name.

     “Don’t look so glum,” Kleinman said. “It’s not like you actually knew him, anyway. And we can finally stop writing those dumb fucking emails.”

     “Y-you said you like-liked writing the – the em-emails.”

     “Sure, it was fun for a bit,” Kleinman said. “But then it got old pretty quick. And a little weird.”

     “You’re s-selling bu-buttons with, uh, with Connor’s f-face on – on it.”

     “Eh, tomato tomahto. The buttons were my idea and my choice. The emails were yours.”

     “You d-don’t have – have to help me,” Hansen snapped. “If – if it’s s-so horrible f-for you, you – you c-can just forg– forget about it.”

     “Whoa, hey, Evan, chill,” Kleinman said placatingly. “I’m still here for you, buddy. I’m just saying, this time next week, we won’t have to worry about them anymore. It’s a good thing! No more giving yourself an aneurism having to lie all the time, right? You can just relax. Well,” he added with a laugh, “relax by your standards.”

     Hansen said nothing.

     Connor said nothing.

     “We still up for a movie night on Friday?” Kleinman asked, a little hesitantly.

     Connor frowned at him. He looked almost nervous.

     “We can watch _The Winter Soldier_ ,” Kleinman continued. “It’s a classic; best Marvel movie out there. You haven’t seen it before, right? You’ll love it. Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan are fucking incredible.” He froze for a second. “In, like, an acting way, obviously. They’re just really great at acting. Superb chemistry. In, like, an acting way. Again. Obviously. Coz Steve and Bucky were best friends. So – like – yeah. Anyway, Scarlett Johansson’s super hot.”

     Hansen glanced up at the laptop screen. “Um, y-yeah, Jared, sure.”

     “Gay,” Connor muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may or may not (probably not) have noticed that i changed the tags quite dramatically. i realised the old tags weren't super... like... inviting, i guess? just tryin'a get people interested~ let me know if you think there's anything i could add or change!

**Author's Note:**

> If you've ever struggled with thoughts about suicide, please reach out and seek help in any way that you can. You are loved and valued. Stay safe <3


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